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STREET & SMITH. # 


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G25 


LADY EVELYN 


OR 


THE LORD OF ROYAL REST 


BY y' 

MAY AGNES FLEMING 

7 * 

AU-THOK OF “the VIRGINIA HEIRESS," “ THE UNSEEN BRIDEGROOM," 
“wedded YET NO WIFE," ETC. 



NEW YORK 

STREET & SMITH, Publishers 

238 William Street 


51964 


Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1899 
By Street & Smith 

111 the Office of'the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 




SEC Jfs.0 Copy, 




LADY EVELYN 


PART FIRST. 


CHAPTER I. 

IvORD RODEJRICK. 

The September sun was setting stormily down there on 
the Wicklow coast. Far off, the purple mountains were 
fast losing themselves in the double darkness of coming 
night and storm. Nearer, over moor and meadow, the 
low-lying sky brooded darkly, and the rising wind sighed 
fitfully, sweeping up from the Irish Sea. Westward, 
lurid bars of blood-red showed where the fiery sun had 
gone down, and the black cloud-rack came rapidly troop- 
ing up, like a fleet of misshapen piratical craft, over the 
blue of the evening sky. Black and angry heaved the 
sea, under that ominous canopy, and the white-capped 
surf crashed already on the shingly shore with the dull 
roar of a beast of prey. 

A lonely scene and hour. Away to the east, the fishing 
village of Clontarf nestled under the rocks ; to the left, its 
tall Tudor turrets and peaked gables, rising above the 
trees of the park, Clontarf Castle reared its hoary head — 
one of the stateliest and oldest houses in Britain. Cur- 
lews and sea-fowl screamed and whirled away in dizzy 
circles over the black waters ; high and dry were drawn 
up the fisherman’s fleet, and the only moving things on 
darkening earth and storm-tossed sea were a girl and 
a yacht. 

The girl — ^to begin with the lady — stood on a lofty 


6 


Lord Roderick, 


bowlder, gazing seaward, making a picture of herself, 
outlined against the blackening gloaming — a brightly 
pretty girl, very fair, very youthful, with a thoroughly 
Irish face — eyes as blue as her Wicklow skies, and as 
sunlit; cheeks like radiant June roses; hair, thick, rich, 
abundant, of the truest golden-brown ; a low brow, and 
a mouth like a veritable rosebud. A face for an artist, 
a study for a pre-Raphaelite, standing there, in vivid re- 
lief against black sky and dark sea, the brown hair and 
picturesque red cloak streaming in the rising wind. 

The yacht lay a mile away, rising and falling in the 
long ground-swell — the trimmest little craft imaginable — • 
a picture in its .wa}^ as well as the girl — all white and 
green — an emerald banner with the Sunburst of old Ire- 
land (when the fairest isle of all islands had a flag) flap- 
ping frcm the mast-head. In golden letters on the stern, 
was the name, “Nora Creina.’’ 

The girl looked impatiently at the darkening sky, at the 
heaving vessel, then glanced behind her with a little, petu- 
lant frown. 

“How long he is !” she said, tearing up the tall sea-moss 
by the roots, in girlish impatience. “They expected Mr. 
Gerald this evening, but I don’t see why that should keep 
him. Ah !” 

She stopped suddenly, her pretty, sunburned face 
brightening; for a boat was lowered from the “Nora 
Creina,” and two men rowed rapidly shoreward. 

“He will come, then, after all !” she cried in a joyful, 
breathless sort of way, a rosy flush of intense delight 
glowing through the golden tan of her fair skin. 

That tell-tale little pronoun ! The old, old story, you 
see, to begin with. The pretty peasant-girl waited there, 
in the twilight, for the rising of her day-god — the coming 
of her lover ! 

A step came rapidly down the rocky path — a step light 
and fleet — and a rich, melodious voice rang down the still- 
ness, singing a ringing hunting song. 

The girl started nervously, reddening to the roots of 
her fair brown hair ; but she turned half away, and drew 
closer to the tail shelter of the rock. She waited for her 
darling, but she was too thoroughly a woman to let his 
mightiness know that. 

“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a 


Lord Roderick. 


7 

hunting morning \” chanted the full, rich voice ; and then 
the singer came into view, with the light leap of a stag 
over the bowlders, and stood balancing himself in mid-air, 
on the topmost peak of a lofty crag, twenty feet over the 
water. 

He was a tall young man — nay, youth — of scarce one- 
and-twenty, a “six-foot son of Anak,” lithe and long of 
limb, straight as an arrow, broad-shouldered, deep- 
chested, golden-haired, and azure-eyed. A magnificent 
young giant — the wildest dare-devil in the three king- 
doms, ^with the face of an Archangel Raphael — a mad- 
headed, hot-brained, reckl-ess young ne’er-do-well, who 
yet looked at you with eyes as blue, and smiling, and in- 
nocent as the eyes of a month-old babe. He was dressed 
in the colors of his first and only love — the idol of his 
heart — his graceful “Nora Creina,” there afloat on the 
v/aters — white trousers, green jacket, green cap with a 
gold band set jauntily on his handsome golden head. He 
stood poised on the dizzy peak, looking seaward, with 
brilliant, cloudless blue eyes. 

“There you are, my beauty, my darling!” he cried, 
apostrophizing the trim little bark. “And if I don’t give 
you a spanking run in the teeth -of this gale before morn- 
ing, I’m not my father’s son. We’ll make King’s Head 
in four hours, with this stiff breeze. A glorious race 
before midnight, my darling ‘Nora’ !” 

“ ‘Oh, my Nora Creina, dear. 

My charming, bashful Nora Creina! 

Beauty lies in many eyes. 

But love in yours, my Nora Creina.’ ” 

He sang gayly, his voice floating out on the breeze to 
the boat, dancing like the cockle-shell it was over the 
breakers, and answered by the men on board with a 
hearty Irish cheer. 

“Lord Rory!” 

He had turned to leap down, agile as a cat, never seeing 
the red cloak and the pretty face so near him, when the 
girl, starting up, called and as he turned with a bewil- 
dered “Halloo !” called again : 

“Lord Roderick !” 

“ ’Fore George, it’s Kathleen !” He was beside her 
with a bound. “Standing here, like a Wicklow fairy, 


8 


Lord Roderick. 


a banshee, or a goddess of the storm, or anything else 
you like. Come to see me off, Kathleen ? How polite of 
you !” 

Kathleen tossed her pretty head saucily. She had come 
to see him off, and colored guiltily as he guessed it. 

‘‘You always were conceited. Lord Rory, and always 
will be. As if one could not come down to watch the 
storm rise without coming on your account 

“Watch the storm arise? By Jove! how romantic the 
dear little girhs getting! Has quite a Byronic sound, 
that, ’pon my word, and comes of improving her mind, 
under my tuition, as she’s been doing lately.” 

He looked a dangerous preceptor for youth, this fair- 
haired King Olaf, with his laughing eyes and splendid 
face; and the red light flashed gloriously up in the pretty, 
sunburned cheeks under his merry gaze. 

“So you’re going to Kihg’s Head to-night, my lord,” ^ 
Kathleen said, making a petulant little mouth. “Well, I 
dare say, you'll be safe in spite of the storm. ‘Any one 
born to be ’ You know the proverb.” 

“ ‘Hanged, will never be drowned.’ Very likely. Miss 
O’Neal, I won’t be the first Desmond who has been 
hanged for his country’s benefit, either, by long odds. 
We always do come to grief, as a rule, and I don’t think 
half a dozen of us ever died decently in our beds. We’ve 
been pinked in the ‘Phaynix,’ we’ve had our heads set 
up to ornament Tower Hill, we’ve been roasted alive in 
our own strongholds, we’ve been court-martialed and shot 
at day-dawn, we’ve had our heads chopped off like spring 
chickens, and we’ve been hung, drawn, and quartered 
by the dozen for high treason. I never heard of but one 
Desmond who was drowned, and he was a pirate, cursed 
with ‘bell, book, and candle,’ so could expect no better. 
Yes, Miss Kathleen O’Neal, I’m off for King’s Head in 
my bonny ‘Nora Creina,’ and I’ll take you with me, if 
you choose, with all the pleasure in life.” 

“Thank you, Lord Rory ! I’m not tired of my life yet. 
When I feel like suicide, I’ll let you know. There’s the 
boat. Good-evening to you. I’m going home.” 

“ ‘My boat is on the shore, and my bark is on the sea.’ 
And so you won’t come? Well, then, I would recom- 
mend you to go home, for standing here in the wind is 
neither pleasant nor profitable, that I can see. Good- 


Lord Roderick. 


9 

night, Kathleen. If quite convenient, . dream of me. 
Oh ! I say, how’s the Englishman ?” 

The girl turned upon him suddenly, her face reddening, 
her eyes flashing passionately in the half-light. 

“Lord Rory!’ she cried. 

He laughed, bounding like a chamois down the steep 
crags. 

“Then you won^t smile on your lover? Poor fellow! 
how I pity him ! My own heart has been broken so 
often, you see, Kathleen, that I can afford to sympathize 
with fellow-martyrs. Any messages for King’s Head? 
No? Then, for the second time, good-night.” 

He waved his gald-banded cap courteously in gay 
salute, this boyish Lord Roderick Desmond, only ^on of 
the Earl of Clontarf, and went springing down to the 
shore, singing again : 

“ ‘ ’Twas from Kathleen’s eyes he flew — 

Eyes of most unholy blue !’ ” 

But for the Kathleen standing on the rocks, she was 
forgotten ere the passionate, yearning blue eyes were 
fairly out of his sight. 

He sprang into the boat, the men pushed off, and it 
went dancing lightly over the billows. The girl shrank 
away behind the tall bowlder, lost to his view in the gath- 
ering darkness, but watching him and his fairy craft with 
impassioned eyes, that told their own story of woman’s 
deepest bliss and deadliest pa.m— love. 

And then distance and darkness took him, and Kath- 
leen hid her hot face in her hands, loving, and knowing 
she loved, as vainly arid wildly as that other’ Kathleen, 
of whose “unholy blue eyes” Moore sings, hurled into 
the lake by flinty-hearted Saint Kevin. 

Vainly, indeed, for she was only the daughter of the 
village pedagogue, and he, ah ! the blue blood of the 
princely Desmonds — kings of old — flowed in his veins, 
and an earl’s coronet awaited him in the future. 

Night had fallen — black, starless, wild. The frowning 
coast had vanished ; they were far out on the tempest- 
lashed ocean, the wind rushing by with a roar, a dark 
and fiery hell of waters heaving around them. 


lo Lord Roderick. 

And through the night and the storm the gallant little 
'‘Nora Creina” shot ahead like an arrow, and on her deck, 
his gold head streaming in the salt blast, -Lord Roderick 
Desmond stood, scanning the stormy blackness with a 
powerful night glass. 

Far off — a luminous speck against the dead darkness — 
something bright, like a fallen star, glimmered and 
glowed. His men were gathered around him ; they 
needed no glass to see that one luminous ray. 

“By heavens!” he cried, clo«^ing his telescope with a 
clash, “it's a ship on fire I” 

And then his rich voice rang out above the uproar of 
. the storm, the wind, and the sea, giving his orders to bear 
down to the relief of the burning ship. 

Away — as a deer flies from the hounds — the “Nora 
Creina” flew over the foam-lashed billows. Nearer and 
nearer they drew to that brilliant ray — that terrible bon- 
fire on the ocean. Larger and larger it loomed upFefore 
them — a pillar of fire — in the storm-lashed sea. 

And as they neared it — so close that but a few yards 
divided them — they could see on the blazing deck two 
figures — a man and a woman. 

“We must lower the boat at once, and if the boat does 
not go down like an egg-shell, then a miracle will have 
taken place,” Lord Roderick said. “Lower away, my 
lads ; there is not a second to be lost.” 

And as his words rang out, wild and high above the 
uproar, there came, piercingly, a woman’s scream of dis- 
tress. 

It seemed surely death, but even unto death these men 
would hav^e followed their gallant young leader. And a 
Desmond never knew fear, and death and Lord Roderick 
had stood face to face many a time already in his brief 
one-and-twenty years. 

Was he going to shirk it now, and a zvoman perishing 
before his eyes? His wild cheer, clear as a bugle blast, 
echoed cheerily as he sprang into the frail skiflf. 

''You will come with me, Fitzgerald,” he said. “No, 
my lads ; any more of you would only be in the way. 
Now, then, pull with a will.” 

And the fairy bark sped away over the foamy breakers, 
as though upheld by fairy hands. The “luck of the Des- 


Lord Roderick. 


II 


monds/’ traditionary all the country-side over, was with 
them in their dauntless daring to-night. 

“Leap into the sea!” those on. board the yacht heard 
Lord Roderick cry ; “we will pick you up. We can go 
no nearer.” 

The man on the deck of the burning vessel seized the 
Avoman in his arms, and, ere the words were well uttered, 
leaped overboard into the black, bitter waters. The flam- 
ing ship lit up the storm-lashed ocean for yards around. 

They sank — they rose. Fitzgerald bent to the oars, and 
sent the light skiff shooting to Avhere their Avhite faces 
gleamed above the hissing waves. Lord Roderick bent 
over and laid hold of the woman’s long, streaming hair. 

breathlessly the watchers on board the yacht gazed. 
There was a moment of inexpressible peril and suspense ; 
tli^n the woman was lifted in the stalwart young arms of 
Lord Clontarf’s son and laid in the bottom of the boat. 

But that moment was fatal. The white face of the 
man vanished, as a huge wave dashed him brutally into 
its depths. Over the wild, midnight sea one last agonized 
cry rang out : 

“Oh, God, save me ! save my Inez I” 

“Back to the yacht, Fitzgerald — ^back, for our lives!’’ 
Lord Roderick shouted. “The man has perished ! 
Back ! Give me the oars !” 

The little boat, urged by those strong, skilled, rowers, 
shot back to the “Nora Creina” as if invisible hands guid- 
ed it through the tempestuous sea. 

They reached the yacht, and a great shout of joy and 
thankfulness arose as the young heroes passed up the 
rescued Avoman and came on board. 

The burning ship blazed steadily to the water’s edge, 
then went headlong down, and an awful blackness 
reigned. 

Of all her living crew, only this one woman remained 
to tell the tale. 

She lay on the deck where they had placed her — still 
as one dead. I^ord Roderick lifted her in his arms, car- 
ried her into the lamplit cabin, and laid her upon a couch. 

She was dripping wet, and her hair, long as a mer- 
maid’s, clung about her. Her eyes were closed ; the face 
was marble wliite. Cold and still she lay there before 
him in a dead swoon. 


12 


Gerald Desmond. 


And the young Lord Roderick stood above her, a 
brandy-flask in his hand, gazing down on that white, still 
face. For, in all the cne-and-twentj years of his bright, 
brief life, Earl Clontarf’s only son had never looked on 
anything half so lovely as this unknown girl he had saved 
from death. 


CHAPTER IL 

GIJRAI^D DESMOND. 

Sunset hour again, low there on the picturesque Wick- 
low coast. An October sunset — cloudless and brilliant. 
An oriflamme of splendor, of golden and crimson and 
purple, a royal canopy for the King of Day — filled all the ^ 
west with indescribable glory. 

And once again, all alone on the wild and “solitary 
shore, Kathleen O’Neal stood, looking over the bound- 
less sea at that crimson glory in the sky. 

The soft, abundant brown hair hung loose, and flut- 
tered in the light evening wind. In and out of the red 
glow on the sea the fishing-boats glanced. Far away 
white sails shone in the offing, and rising and falling 
airily in its sheltered cove, the “Nora Creina” lay at 
anchor. 

Kathleen looked at none of these things. She had sunk 
down on a bed of sea-moss, half lying, half sitting, one 
round white arm thrown up over a tall rock, her head 
lying wearily on that arm. 

The great, soft blue eyes, so brilliant, so joyous six 
weeks before, looked blankly over the ocean, with a dull 
and dreary loneliness inexpressively sad to see. The 
pretty, piquant face had lost all its bright bloom, its glad 
gay smiles and dimples. 

She lay there listlessly and forlornly enough, pale as 
the surf breaking on the sands below. Only six weeks 
since that lurid sunset when she had waited impatiently 
here for her lover, with a heart as bright and as light as 
a bird’s. Nozv she sat haggard and pale, weary and 
hopeless ; for in six brief weeks the light had faded from 
pretty Kathleen’s life, and her lover was as utterly and 


Gerald Desmond. 


13 

entirely lost to her as though the angry waves of that 
stormy night had swept over his golden head forever. 

Her lover ! Yes ; hers, by the memory of a thousand 
words, of a thousand loving smiles, of a thousand tender 
kisses, of walks, and talks, and sails, and presents, and 
looks, and whispers. 

Only boy-and-girl love, perhaps, but very sweet and 
charming to them both, until now — and now the boy-lord 
had forgotten his low-born love as completely as though 
she had never existed, and the girl was breaking her heart 
over it, as g^ls have done from time immemorial. 

“Will she ever love him as I have done?” Kathleen 
thought, her heart full of hopdess, bitter pain; “half so 
dearly as I have done? And he did love me a little, be- 
fore she came between us. Oh, mother of God ! keep my 
soul from the sinful wish that the black waves had swal- 
lowed her that night!” 

A step came down the shingly strand — a man’s step; 
but the girl never stirred. It was not his. What, then, 
did it matter if all the world passed before her? All 
would still be desolation, since he was not there. 

“Give you good-even, my pretty Kathleen,” said a soft, 
loA^ voice that Kathleen knew well, and a whiff of scented 
cigar-smoke puffed in her face. “On my life, you make 
a very charming picture, my dear. I never wished I 
were an artist until this moment. Come here to see the 
sun go down, eh? Ah, well!” with a lazy sigh. “Neat 
thing in the way of sunsets, too. How’s the dear old 
dad?” 

Kathleen rose up with a bound, flushing rosy red, and 
dropping an embarrassed little courtesy. A tall man 
stood before her— a gentlemanly looking personage of 
thirty or thereabouts, well dressed, well looking, with a 
shadowy resemblance in his light-blue eyes and fair hair 
to the gold-haired, azure-eyed darling of her heart. He 
was not one-hundredth part so handsome, but he vaguely 
resembled Lord Roderick Desmond, and was that young 
lordling’s third cousin — the penniless son of a penniless 
younger brother, and a barrister at law, of Lincoln’s Inn, 
London. 

He looked much more like an Englishman than an 
Irish Desmond, with his carefully trained side-whiskers. 


14 


Gerald Desmond. 


his slow, languid voice, and his affectation of utter in- 
difference to all things under the sun. 

‘‘Mr. Gerald !” Kathleen cried ; ‘'you here ! I didn’t 
know — I thought you were ” 

“At home, as 1 should be — very likely. But hard work 
all summer has used me up, and I’ve taken a run over to 
Clontarf to freshen for the autumn and winter campaign. 
‘Men must work and women must weep;’ and they avail 
themselves of their prerogative, the dear, moist creatures, 
to the full, I must say, equally at weddings and deaths. 
You don’t know the song of the ‘Three Fishers,’ I dare 
say, Katie, but you look as though you had gone in for 
the weeping business yourself, of late. , Six weeks ago 
I saw you as blooming as one of your own Irish roses ; 
now a belle of five seasons could hardly look more chalky 
and haggard than my wild, fresh Wicklow rosebxid. Is it^ 
speedy consumption, Kathie, or a more fatal disease — * 
crossed in love?” 

He took the cigar from between his lips and bent to- 
ward her, a keenly knowing look in his small, light-blue 
eyes. 

He and little Kathleen knew each other well — from the 
days when he, a tall, hobbledehoy of sixteen, had been 
“coached” by old O’Neal, a decayed gentleman and a 
thorough classical scholar, and had romped with the pret- 
tiest fourteen-year-old fairy in the county. 

Old O’Neal had been proud of his clever pupil; and 
Gerald Desmond, who was always prodigal of those fine 
words which cost so little, and butter so deliciously the 
parsnips of society, was a regular visitor at the cottage 
of his old preceptor during his flying visits to Clontarf. 

He had seen Rory and Kathleen together more times 
than he could count, and he had pulled his long, blonde 
whiskers and smiled sardonically at Rory’s boyish devo- 
tion and Kathleen’s innocent blushes. 

“Quite a chapter out of Arcadia, really,” he said, with 
his cynical sneer ; for he had been a cynic before he left 
off roundabouts. “Paul and Virginia, the Babes of the 
Wood — anything innocent and turtle-dove-like you please. 
My dear, artless Rory and my pretty, blushing Kathleen! 
As guileless as a pair of newly fledged goslings ! How 
refreshing it is to know that such sweet simplicity yet 
reigns on this big, wicked earth !” 


Gerald Desmond. 


15 

And Mr. Gerald, in his hard, old precocity — a “man 
about town” at two-and-twenty, with all the knowledge 
of a wicked old age — chaffed his lordly cousin, and caused 
that ingenuous youth to blush nearly as much as little 
Kathleen herself, half in boyish shame, half in honest in- 
dignation. 

“It’s quite a pastoral — the ‘Loveg of Rory and Kath- 
leen.’ I think I’ll turn poetaster and write it out, and 
beat the ‘Venus and Adonis’ all to sticks. How’s it going 
to end, Rory, my lad ? it to be the gushing legend of 
Lord Burleigh and his Ellen over again? and is artless 
Kathleen, the village schoolmaster’s daughter, to grace a 
coronet? Or will it be, ‘Oh, weep for the hour when to 
Evelyn’s bower the lord of the valley with false vows 
came?’ Hey, my Wicklow Apollo?” 

And to all of which Mr. Gerald never got any more 
explicit answer than a modest blush and an indignant 
“Oh, hang it, Ger! none of your nagging! Let a fellow 
alone, can’t you ?” 

He bent over Kathleen now, and saw the red blood 
rising to the I9W, fair brow, and the hot mist that filled 
the soft blue eyes. 

“Rory hasn’t been up to the cottage for the past six 
weeks, I dare swear,” he said, carelessly. “He is taken 
up by night and by day, sleeping and waking, body and 
soul, with that dark-eyed donna from old Castile. Seen 
her yet, Kathleen ?” 

He could see the tempestuous heaving of Kathleen’s 
breast, the passionate cloud of jealousy that darkened her 
whole fair face. 

“Yes; I have seen her — again and again and again!” 

“And she is beautiful as one’s dreams of the angels, 
eh ? Not that I ever dream of those celestial messengers 
myself : and I don't suppose they have big black eyes and 
a shower of midnight tresses down to their waists, if one 
did see them. But she is lovely as an houri from Stam- 
boul, and — vou hate her as Old Nick hates holy water!” 

“Mr. Gerkld ! I ?” 

“You, Kathleen — for this reason: Rory has gone mad 
for her. ' Ah, what an impetuous, hot-headed, reckless, 
hare-brained fellow that is ! On my word, it takes my 
breath away only to think of him ! And impetuosity is 
so very pronounced, and in such excessively bad style ! 


i6 


Gerald Desmond. 


But he is madly in love ; and really the Senorita d’Alvarez 
is very well worth loving — supposing anything is worth 
getting the steam up to such a pitch here beloW. She's a 
royal beauty ; she’s the heiress of a millionaire, with 
shares and bonds, and consols and coupons, and castles 
in Spain and bank stock in England. Only it would be 
such ah infinite deal of trouble, I would fall in love with 
her and marry her myself.” 

“I wish you would,” Kathleen said, between her 
clenched, pearly teeth. “Why did she ever leave Spain? 
Why did she ever come ” 

“Here — between you and Rory ? Ah ! why, indeed ? 
You see, Kathie, the don married an English woman, rich 
beyond all telling, and beautiful as — her daughter. 
Donna Inez has spent her whole life in a Spanish convent, 
in Valadana, I believe, and Don Pedro and his English 
donna went in for high life in our modern Vanity Fair — ■ 
Paris. Then the English lady dies, and the Spanish papa 
waxes lonely, goes to the convent, claims his daughter, 
and starts with her for England, to present her to her 
English relatives by the distaff side, and — the ship catches 
fire off the Irish Coast, and the crew take to the boats, and 
the two passengers are forgotten in the hubbub, and 
Master Rory and his yacht arrive in the nick of time 
to bear off the shrieking beauty from the devouring 
flames— a modern St. George and the Dragon. What a 
scene it would make for the boards of the Princess or the 
Porte St. Martin ! How the pit and the galleries would 
applaud ! 

“You’ve not read many novels in your life-time, my 
Kathleen, and you’re all the better for it ; but if you had, 
you wouldn’t need me to tell you the sequel to this de- 
lightful romance. In yellow covered literature the cur- 
tain invariably falls, after a score or two of such tre- 
mendous sensations, on the crowning folly of man — mar- 
riage.” 

“Marriage !” Kathleen repeated, her breath coming 
short and quick — “marriage, Mr. Gerald! Will Lord 
Roderick marry her?'' 

“I think it extremely likely. As I said, he is in a state 
of utter imbecility about her, and she— well, those impas- 
sioned, tall, black-eyed, dark-skinned, fiery-blooded south- 
rons are generally the very devil either to love or hate. 


Gerald Desmond. 


17 

And Rory’s thews and sinews, his six foot of stature, his 
yellow locks and his blue eyes have made their mark al- 
ready. The lad’s good-looking, as you know, Kathleen, 
and Donna De Castilia is susceptible. In spite of papa’s 
recent death, and her trailing crape and sables, she looks 
graciously already on the future Earl of Clontarf. Yes, 
Miss O’Neal, I think I will be called upon to draw up the 
marriage settlements for my lordly cousin before the 
world wags twelve months longer.” 

She was tearing up the turf with a fierce, suppressed 
excitement that must find vent somehow. Gerald Des- 
mond glanced at her askance. 

“And if I were you, Kathleen, I would take the initia- 
tive. I would marry Morgan out of hand.” 

“Mr. Gerald !” 

She turned upon him, her pale cheeks flushing, her eyes 
flashing in the twilight. 

“Don’t flare up, you little Celtic pythoness ! Yes, I 
would. Morgan’s an Englishman and an attorney — hein- 
ous crimes both, in your eyes and your father’s ; but for 
all that, you can’t do better. He’s well to do; he’ll make 
a lady of you, or a lady on a small scale, and no one need 
ever apply to you that nasty little word, jilted!** 

“Gerald Desmond ! How dare you ?” 

Gerald Desmond shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 
He rarely laughed. 

“Coming the tragic muse, eh ? Pray, don’t excite your- 
self, my dear. I’m talking like a father to you. I met 
Morgan down there beyant, as they say here, and he 
begged me most piteously to put in a good word for him. 
You’ve lost Lord Roderick, you see; and I give you my 
Avord, Kathleen, I thought at one time his little flirtation 
would have ended seriously. But he has gone down be- 
yond hope before the Spanish eyes of the Castilian beauty, 
and your cake’s dough. Marry Morgan, like a good girl, 
and live happy forever after.” 

She clutched a handful of grass, and flung it passionate- 
ly over the rocks. 

“I would die ten thousand deaths, I would jump into 
the sea yonder, before I would marry Morgan! I hate 
him !” 

“Poor devil!” said Morgan’s intercessor, plaintively. 
“But you’ll marry some one, some time, you know, Kath- 


1 8 Gerald Desmond. 

leen. It’s woman’s destiny, the end and aim of her whole 
life — marriage.” 

“I shall never marry !” her voice choked as she said it, 
and she turned away. “I will go to my grave what I am 
to-night.” 

“My dear little gushing Kathleen I” Gerald Desmond 
absolutely laughed a little, so amused was he. “ ‘I’ll live 
and die a maid,’ as the old songs say, for Rory’s sweet 
sake. Don’t do it, Kathleen. Go up to Clontarf and for- 
bid the bans.” 

“What do you mean ?” 

“Why, this, little one: the donna is as proud as the 
deuce — all these high and mighty Spanish beauties are — 
and as jealous as the devil. Go up to the castle, insist on 
an interview, tell her Rory is yours, not hers, that your 
claim to him is beyond dispute. So it is, you know ; he 
has been courting you ever since he was three feet high. 
Tell her he loves you still, and is only after her doubloons. 
By Jove ! Kathleen, she’ll drop him like a hot potato.” 

“Mr. Gerald!” 

The amazement, the indignation, the superb hauteur 
with which Kathleen regarded him is utterly beyond de- 
scription. She stood drawn up to her full height, her 
eyes ablaze in the silvery light. 

“Yes, mignohne.” 

“How dare you say such things to me 1” — she stamped 
her foot, and her little brown fist clenched — “how dare 
you insult me by such suggestions ! Come between him 
and the girl of his heart, when I would die at his feet to 
make him happy ! Go to that noble lady and belie him, 
the noblest, the bravest, the truest — ” 

Her voice broke down ; poor Kathleen was no orator. 
She covered her face with her hands, and burst into a very 
passion of tears. 

Gerald Desmond shrugged his shoulders, took out a 
cigar, struck a fusee, and lit it. 

“They are all alike,” he murmured — “peasant and prin- 
cess. They ivill go in for hysterics in spite of you. Well, 
Kathleen, don’t cry ; please yourself, you know. I’ve only 
been talking to you for your good. ’Fore George! he 
must be the darling of the gods, this Roderick Desmond, 
since you all lose your heads for him; and he can jilt you 


Gerald Desmond. 


19 

in cold blood, and the most spirited of you haven’t spirit 
enough left to resent it.” 

“He never jilted me!” Kathleen retorted, angrily. “It 
was all my own folly, from first to last. What was I that 
he — so noble, so handsome, so high-born — should stoop to 
care for me? I tell you it was all my own mad folly, 
nothing else ; and 1 am properly punished. I beg your 
pardon, Mr. Gerald ; you make me say rude things in spite 
of myself. Good-evening to you. I must go home.” 

“Wait one moment, Kathleen,” he said; with a singular 
smile. “You are most generous, most magnanimous. 
Now take your reward. Look yonder.” 

He pointed ; she followed the direction of his finger. 
Up from the shore, in the silvery haze of the rising moon, 
two lovers came, walking as lovers walk, talking as lovers 
talk. She leaned on his arm, clinging to him — a tall, slen- 
der, black-robed girl,, with a nameless, high-bred grace ; 
and he — ah ! the tall, fair head bent over her, the devoted 
eyes watched her, in a way that told the tale. 

“Lord Roderick Desmond and Donna Inez,” said Gerald 
Desmond. “Has he asked her already to be his wife ? It 
would be very like him, impetuous that he is ; and very like 
her, passionate and impulsive, to say yes. Well, good- 
night, Kathleen, and — pleasant dreams.” 

He touched his hat carelessly and turned away, hum- 
ming an old song as he went : 

“ ‘Thou hast learned to love another, 

Thou hast brqken every vow — ’ ” 

and each word went through the girl’s heart like a knife. 
Where he had left her, she crouched down, her face hid- 
den in her hands, with the low, dumb moan of a stricken 
animal. The tears had come at Gerald Desmond’s words, 
but no tears came now, only mute, dumb despair was left. 

Gerald Desmond walked slowly homeward, in the sil- 
very light of the moon, to Clontarf Castle. His pale face 
was at all times fixedly calm, but his light, cold eyes 
gleamed with an evil gleam. For he coveted this Spanish 
beauty with his whole soul, for her rare loveliness, that 
had fired his cold blood, for her great wealth, that mad- 
dened him with covetous desire. 

What was his cousin, this fair-haired, impulsive boy, 
that all the glory of the world should be his? With such 


20 


Weaving tlie Web. 

a prize as this Spanish princess for a wife, there was no 
eminence in the kingdom but he, with his shrewd brain, 
and crafty cleverness, might not attain. 

He had hated and envied his cousin long, with a bitter 
and terrible envy, all the more deadly from being so close- 
ly hidden ; but he had never in his whole life before hated 
him so vindictively as he did to-night. 

They were but a little way before him, these two, match- 
less in their beauty, in their bright and gracious youth and 
love. Gerald Desmond set his strong white teeth, and 
ground out a terrible oath. 

“I have hated you in secret for many a year, you shallow- 
brained, mad-headed fool \” he said, with a gleam of devil- 
ish malignity in his light eyes ; “the time has come to act 
now. Woo your black-eyed bride — win her if you can. 
If you ever lead her to the altar, if you ever* slip the wed- 
ding-circlet on her finger, then ‘write me down an ass !’ I 
love Inez d’Alvarez, and mine she shall be — mine! I have 
said it, and we Desmonds keep our \Yord. When her 
wedding-day comes, unlikely as it looks now, I will stand 
at the altar by her side, and you will be — zvhere, Lord 
Roderick ?” ' 


CHAPTER III. 

WOSAVING THE WEB. 

She stood by the window, looking out over the illimita- 
ble sea, a picture of rare loveliness— stately and tall, slen- 
der and willowly, graceful and high-bred, the dainty head 
held proudly aloft, and the rich masses of blue-black hair 
falling in a shining, glossy cascade over the sloping white 
shoulders down to the lithe waist. A low brow ; a com- 
plexion of the dead, creamy whiteness of ivory ; a curved 
red mouth, haughty and sweet at once, and two wonderful 
Castilian eyes, long, black, and brisrht as stars. She was 
dressed in deepest mourning, trailing far behind her over 
the oaken floor : her sole ornaments a sparkling cross of 
diamonds on her breast, and a circlet of red gold clasping 
back of her beautiful, abundant hair. 

She stood alone in the long, low, old-fashioned drawing- 
room, the first of a lengthy suite — alone by the open win- 
dow, framed, like some exquisite picture by Greuze or 


21 


Weaving tHe Web. 

Guido, in wild roses and climbing ivy. She stood alone, 
yet not lonely, for a tender, misty light softened the flash- 
ing glory of those great Assyrian eyes, and a dreamy, 
happy smile curved the perfect mouth. For she was very, 
very happy, this impassioned Spanish girl, in spite of her 
recent loss, her father’s terrible death. 

She had known very little of that lost father in all the 
eighteen years of her convent life. Love, to her, bounded 
the universe, and she was in love, with all the fire and pas- 
sion and wild abandon of her tropical southern blood. She 
loved and was beloved, and this wild Wicklow coast was 
to her fairer than all the beauty of sunlit old Castile — this 
stormy Irish Sea, spreading before her, dearer than the 
bright-flowing Ebro, on whose sparkling waters her baby 
eyes had first looked. 

The moon was rising — like another Venus Aphrodite, 
out of the ocean — red and round ; the stars swung clear in 
the purple night sky; the nightingales sounded their 
plaintive jug-jug in the woodland, and soft and low the 
waves washed up on the white sands. 

And looking on all the sylvan beauty of the falling 
night, with her happy heart in her starry eyes, Inez d’Al- 
varez stood and waited for her lover. 

“Why does he linger ?” she thought, with the pretty im- 
patience of a sovereign beauty not born to wait. “If he is 
only happy when by my side, as he says, why now does he 
stay away?”. 

She was of an intensely proud and jealous nature, this 
high-hearted daughter of old Castile, and she came. of a 
fiery-blooded race, who brooked no rival in love or in 
power. 

“What did that cousin — that Senor Gerald — mean. to- 
day, when he laughed so disagreeably and hinted at some 
old love of the past ? He says he loves but me. My Rod- 
erick has never loved any other ! He would not dare de- 
ceive me — my prince, my king! If he did — Ah, he 
comes !” 

The darkly beautiful face lit up with a gladder light 
than ever shone on sea or land. She bent a little forward. 

Yes ; he came, and “Senor Gerald” by his side. They 
were arm in arm ; both were smoking, and Lord Roderick 
towered up a full head above his less stately kinsman. 

They had been playmates in youth, school-fellows after ; 


22 


Weaving tlie Web. 

and Roderick Desmond, with the princely habit nature and 
custom had given him, ever kept his needy cousin’s coffers 
full, even if his own went empty. It was a right leal 
heart, as became a descendant of the kingly Desmonds, 
and he loved his cousin and comrade with a great and 
loyal love. 

The fair, dark face gleamed out a second in the silvery 
light, then vanished. She was by far too proud to let an / 
man alive, though he were her king as well as her love , 
see she waited his sovereign pleasure. 

But the hawk eye of Gerald saw her, swift as^ she 
moved, and the soft, trained voice rose ever so slightly as 
he passed beneath the casement. 

“I was conversing with a very old friend of yours this 
time last night, Rory,” he, said, with his low, faint laugh; 
‘‘and — poor little girl! — she does take your divided allegi- 
ance terribly to heart. We had hysterics, tears, re- 
proaches, despair — all that sort of thing that women per- 
sist in going in for — to our hearts’ content. What a terri- 
ble slaughterer you are, Rory! Knock* Nero to nothing; 
out-Herod Herod ! It is the massacre of the innocents 
over again !” 

Rory opened his bright-blue Celtic eyes in a wide stare 
of honest astonishment. 

“Hey! What the deuce are you driving at? I don't 
know what you mean.” 

“Of course you don’t. That’s your role now — as Bene- 
dict, the married man. Stick to it, my dear boy, by all 
means. Your dark-eyed donna might not relish your 
feats of prowess, or knowing the list of your killed and 
wounded. Only — poor little devil ! — I don’t believe she'll 
ever hold up her head again. How do you do it, Rory?” 

“Deuce take you, Gerald ! What poor little devil are 
you talking of ?” 

“Of Kathleen O’Neal, if you zvill have it. Drop the 
mask with me, Rory, lad. It does well enough for the 
senorita, but I can see through it. You haven’t used that 
little girl well, young one. She’s gone to a shadow. Be- 
ing crossed in love wouldn’t be a bad thing for prize-fight- 
ers or the university eight going into training. It takes 
the superfluous flesh off beyond anything I know. 
You’ve heard, among other pretty poetical fictions, of 
broken hearts, I suppose, old boy? Well, I give you my 


Weaving the Web. 23 

word, if such inconceivable nonsense could exist, I should 
say Kathleen's heart was smashed to flinders. Ah, you’ve 
a great deal to answer for, my Lord Roderick !” 

"For Heaven’s sake, Gerald!” Rory exclaimed, impetu- 
ously flinging away his cigar ; “speak plainly. You never 
mean to say ” 

"Ah, but I do!” Gerald said, plaintively. “She’s gone 
down beyond redemption, poor little beauty ! I don’t set 
up for mentor, my dear Telemachus; but, 'pon honor, I 
don’t think you’ve done the handsome thing by Kathleen. 
The little one’s as innocent as a babe. She thought you 
serious all along. I tell you, candidly, she’s as good as 
told me she expected you to marry her, and she’s most ab- 
surdly over head and ears in love with you. She cried 
last evening, down there on the sands, until her pretty 
blue eyes were as red as a ferret’s, and her little, unclassi- 
cal nose swollen to twice its natural size. It’s only in 
novels, and on the stage, women know how to weep with- 
out making hideous frights of themselves. You’ve made 
the strongest sort of love to her, my innocent Rory — you 
knozv you have — and now you throw her off without a 
word. Well, it’s otir nature, but it’s hard on the women. 
If you had only let her down gently, now— but with a jerk 
like this ! Ah, bad policy, dear boy — bad policy !” 

And then they passed away beyond sight and hearing, 
tlie last words coming faint and far-off to the listener’s 
ears. 

She did not see the flush of honest sorrow and shame 
that mantled Roderick Desmond’s fair, frank face, or hear 
the passionate grief and selLreproach in his voice as he 
spoke : 

“Before heaven, Gerald! I never loved Kathleen save 
as a sister — a little playmate and pet — or thought she 
loved me ! I never made love to her. I pledge you my 
sacred honor, I never thought of this !” 

Gerald Desmond laughed lightly. 

“No ; I dare say not. We don’t premeditate and do 
these things in cold blood. We go on impulse, and it 
comes to much the same thing in the end. You never 
made love to her? My dear, artless Lord Roderick ! there 
are ways and ways of making love. She thinks you did. 
So where is the difference? Never mind, Rory; girls will 
be fools to the end of the chapter. ‘ ’Tis their nature to,’ 


24 


Weaving tlie Web. 

as Doctor Watts pithily observes ; and we must have our 
little amusements. Don't worry, Rory ; I won't tell the 
donna. Lord ! how she would fire up at the thought of a 
rival ! I'll keep your secret, and you’ll reason with Kath- 
leen. Morgan wants her, and if she marries Morgan, all 
will go on velvet. Her father wishes it — poor, old, 
broken-down spendthrift ! — and you must talk to her as 
though you were her ghostly director, for the old fellow's 
sake. Come, let us go in. Bella donna will think she has 
lost you." 

The wax-lights were lit in the dark, quaint old drawing- 
room, with its heavy, antique furniture, and its squares of 
Persian carpet and rich old Turkish rugs laid over the 
polished oak flooring. 

Donna d’Alvarez was still alone, still standing by the 
window, gazing out over the shining, moonlit sea. 

She never turned at their entrance, and as her lover 
came up beside her, he started’ in wonder to see her face 
set and white and her black eyes glowing with dusky fire. 

“Inez, my darling! what is the matter?" 

“Nothing," she said, coldly and briefly. 

She spoke English perfectly, and all the more charm- 
ingly for her musical foreign accent. 

With that one curt word, she turned away and swept 
over to his cousin. 

“Senor," she said, with her radiant smile, “you asked 
me this morning to sing some of our old Castilian ballads 
for you. I wilksing for you now, if you choose." 

Gerald looked up in surprise. Suave and swift as his 
courteous answer came, she did not linger to hear it. She 
had sailed away once rnore to the further end of the room, 
and bent above a tall, old-fashioned Irish harp. 

Her slender white hands swept the strings, and grand, 
masterly chords filled the room. Gerald Desmond stood 
beside her, a shining, evil gleam in his cold, light eyes. 

A servant entered the room. 

“The earl wishes to see you in his room, my lord," he 
said to his youthful master; and with a troubled face, 
Lord Roderick followed him out of the room. 

Then Inez d’Alvarez threw aside her harp, and stood 
erect before Gerald Desmond, with angry, flashing, dark 
eyes. 

“Half an hour ago, senor, when you passed beneath 


Weaving the Web. 25 

yonder window with your cousin, I stood there, and heard 
every word. What Old you mean? has he dared to de- 
ceive me — me, Inez d Alvarez? He told me 1 had his 
whole heart. Has he lied, then? Who is this girl who 
loves him — whom he loves — this Kathleen ?” 

“My dear Lady Inez— 

“Speak!” — she stamped her foot vehemently — “speak, 
I tell you ! I can not ask him ! He has told me once he 
loved but me ; he would tell me so again. Spei k, sir, I 
command ! Has Roderick Desmond dared to play with 

fiief"' 

“Dear Lady Inez, no ! I think not — I hope not. He 
Icves you now, and you alone. How could he or any one 
do otherwise? But Rory is only a youth, and boys are 
apt to be fickie. Rory’s nature is light and susceptible, 
easily touched, and easily changed. Each fair face makes 
its mark when we are one-and-twenty. Don’t be too hard 
upon him, Donna Inez. He will always be true to you, let 
us hope.” 

Her passionate Spanish eyes flashed fire, her little hand 
clenched in a paroxysm of jealous rage. 

''Madre de Dios! hear him, how he talks! Who is this 
Kathleen ? Tell me ! I insist — I command !” 

“A peasant girl — beautiful as one of Correggio’s smil- 
ing angels !” 

“Ah-h-h 1” She drew a long, sibilant, hissing breath. 
“And he loves her — hef' 

“Dear Lady Inez, no. Heaven forbid! There has 
been some boyish folly in the past — nothing more, believe 
me. And he is handsome, ■ and she is only a silly little 
lovesick fool ! Ah, what a pity you chanced to hear ! 
How sorry I am I spoke! Donna Inez, forgive Rory. 
He is but a lad ; forget it. Who could look on a peasant 
girl, with all the beauty of a Raphael Madonna, after see- 
ing youf 

She turned from him with the swift abruptness that was 
part of her, laid hold of the harp again, and began to play. 

Wild, weird melodies filled the room — old Castilian airs, 
full of passion and pain, thrilling and unearthly. 

In the midst of the strange music Lord Roderick en- 
tered, and Gerald Desmond retreated at his coming and 
left the field to him. 


26 Weaving tlie Web. 

He approached, he bent over her, he tried to take her 
hand. 

“Inez, my love, my own, tell me — ” 

But she snatched her hand passionately away, and 
looked at him with eyes that blazed. 

“Release my hand, sir ! Let me go. My head aches. 
I am going to my room.” 

She was gone like a dream. Roderick Desmond turned 
his bewildered face round to his cousin. 

“In heaven’s name ! ivkat does it mean ?” 

Gerald shrugged his shoulders. It was one of his many 
affectations. 

“Dear boy, who knows ? A woman’s whim ! Beauty 
is in the sulks to-night ; beauty will be radiant in smiles 
to-morrow. Never try to translate a woman’s caprices 
into common sense. Wiser heads have done their best, 
and failed. Suppose we have a soothing little game of 
ecarte? There is nothing like it for quieting the nerves.” 

So they sat down ; and when, a little after midnight, 
Mr. Gerald Desmond went yawning up to his chamber, 
his nerves were soothed by fifty additional sovereigns in 
his purse. '4 

“I have won !” he thought, with a complacent smile. “I 
always do win ; and I shall conquer in this other little 
game, as well as in ecarte. The train is laid now. I’ll 
strike the fusee that shall fire it before yonder full moon 
wanes !” 


CHAPTER IV. 
netted in the meshes. 

A small, thatched, solitary cottage, nestling down, all 
by itself, in the green heart of the wildest and most pic- 
turesque of lonely Wicklow glens. 

It looked pretty, it looked a study for a painter, but was 
drearily lonely and forlorn, despite all the wild, rugged 
beauty of mountain scenery closing it in like the setting of 
a gem. It was somewhere in the afternoon — a gray and 
sunless afternoon, with a warning of coming storm in the 
soughing of the sea gale, in the ominous shrieks of the 
sea-fowl. The sky lay low and leaden on the black hill- 
tops ; the furze and purple heath swept downward before 


Netted in the Meshes. 


27 

the wind, and the moistness of the coming rain was al- 
ready in the air. 

The cheerless light stole through the cottage window — 
sparkling and bright as the dull green glass could be made. 
1 he little cottage kitchen, with its earthen floor and scant 
plenishing, looked yet exceedingly clean and tidy, and a 
bright turf fire lit it up into comfortable cheeriness. 

Kathleen O’Neal stood leaning against the chimney, the 
fair, pretty face sadly somber and overcast. The soft, 
child-like eyes had a weary look of pain and unshed tears 
in their misty depths, and her very attitude, as she leaned 
there, spiritless, wearily, told that hope had gone out of 
her young heart already. 

Pacing up and down the 'small room was a tall, gaunt 
old man, stooping and silver-haired. His thin, intelligent 
face, with its sharp aquiline features, had little in common 
with others of his station. Indeed, the dwellers in turf 
cottages were not of his station, for Hugh O’Neal had 
been born a gentleman, had been educated as a gentleman, 
and through the all-potent passion for cards and “moun- 
tain dew” had in his old days come to this — a dependent 
on the bounty of the most noble, the Lord of Clontarf. 

“Kathleen, you must marry him !” he was saying now in 
a shrill, passionate voice. “I tell you, girl, I am disgraced 
forever if this becomes known. I thought never to touch 
cards of whisky again ; I promised you, I know ; I took 
my book oath, God help me, and— broke it. I have ]ost 
all, Kathleen — all, all, all !” His voice rose to a wild, 
ear-splitting cry. “This cottage, the gift of our noble 
patron — the bit of land — all gone, and to Morgan. Oh, 
Lord of heaven, how will I ever hold up my head again, if 
this becomes known? and Morgan threatens to foreclose 
the mortgage Within the month. And then, Kathleen, you 
know what remains — we are thrown upon the world, help- 
less as two infants. / am disgraced forever — my only 
home the poor-house. No” — he raised his tall, gaunt 
form grandly upright, and his bleared old eyes flashed 
through their tears — “no, it shall never come to that with 
Hugh O’Neal, whose fathers once reigned kings of Ire- 
land — never whilst there is water enough in the sea yon- 
der to hide his shame !” 

“Father, father!” the girl said, piteously, “for the love 


28 


Netted in the Meshes. 


of heaven, don’t say such horrible things. Oh, why did 
Morgan ever come here to tempt you to your ruin ?” 

“1 he rum would have come the same without him,” the 
old man said, gloomily, “it was my fate. But I swear to 
you, Kathleen, and this time I will keep my oath, that if 
you save me now, I will never touch cards or liquor while 
I live again !” 

“You have sworn it so often,” she answered, wearily; 
^^and, oh, father, you know how you have kept your word. 
If / save you! You know I would willingly die to keep 
you from misery and shame.” 

“No one wants you to die,” O’Neal said, eagerly. “You 
are young and beautiful, my daughter, and there is a long 
and happy life in store for you. You know zvho promises 
a long and happy life, even in this world, to dutiful chil- 
dren? You will be rich, and honored, and happy, as Mor- 
gan’s wife.” 

“As Morgan’s wife!” She stood erect, and the soft 
blue eyes, so gentle, so tender always, met her fa.ther’s 
with a look he had never seen there before. “Happy as 
the wife of a man I hate — a bad, crafty, unprincipled man. 
Father, I will never marry Morgan !” 

“Then my blood be upon your head !” cried the old 
spendthrift, furiously. “I tell you, Kathleen O’Neal, the 
day that sees Morgan turn us out of house and home, sees 
my curse, hot and heavy, on you!'^ 

“Oh, father, father !” 

'[You refuse Morgan, forsooth! — you, a pauper’s cot- 
ter’s child — the richest attorney in Clontarf — in the coun- 
ty. But we all know zv7iy, you little fool ! You’re dis- 
gracing yourself, and disgracing your father, by your 
lovesick folly for Lord Roderick Desmond. A pretty girl 
you are — a nice, virtuous girl — to be making an idiot of 
yourself, and the talk of the townland, by your madness. 
You’ll disgrace me next — worse disgrace than Morgan 
can bring us. The neighbors whisper about you already, 
I can tell you, my lady. Don’t you know he’s going to 
marry this Spanish lady — the heiress of a millionaire, with 
the best blood of Spain in her veins, and the beauty and 
pride of an empress? You want to marry a lord, quotha ! 
and so turn up your nose at an attorney. But I tell you, 
you little, whimpering simpleton. Lord Rory doesn’t think 
of you half as much or half as often as he does of the 


Netted in the Meshes. 


29 

hounds in his father's pack, of the horses in his father’s 
stable !” 

“Oh, father!” Kathleen cried again in a voice of pas- 
sionate anguish. “Have you mercy ? Do you want to 
drive me mad? Oh, I wish — I wish I had never been 
born !” 

“Will you marry Morgan?” stopping in his stride, and 
standing sternly before her. 

“Father, 1 can not. I loathe, I abhor that man. I 
would sooner die! Ah, God help me, I think my heart 
will break !” 

“Let us hope not,” said a soft voice; and a man’s form 
darkened the door- way. “Hearts don’t break in the nine- 
teenth century; we have had them, like our city streets, 
macadamized. What’s the trouble, my little Kathleen?” 

“The trouble is that she is a fool !” replied her father, 
with ferocity; “the greatest fool that ever breathed. I 
have told her, as I have told you, Mr. Gerald, how matters 
stand between me and Morgan, and still she won’t consent 
to marry him.” 

“No ? That unlucky Morgan ; how you do dislike him. 
to be sure, Kathleen. What’s the reason, I wonder? He 
is not such a bad-looking fellow in the main, and he can 
keep you in clover.” 

‘'You know the reason — we all know the reason,” said 
O’Neal, brutally ; “and she ought to be ashamed to hold 
up her head. By the Lord Harry ! I’ll go up to the castle 
myself, and make Lord Rory come here and order her to 
marry the attorney. She’ll obe}^ him, maybe, since she 
worships the ground he walks on.” 

“Oh, Mother Mary !” murmured poor Kathleen, hiding 
her face, “pity me — help me ! Oh, what — what — what 
shall I do?” 

“No need for you to tramp to the castle, my dear old 
dad,” said Gerald Desmond, coolly. “Rory wants to see 
Kathleen himself. There’s the devil to pay up at Clon- 
tarf. The donna has got wind of Master Rory’s little 
flirtation with Kathleen here, and double thongs won’t 
hold her. Lord Roderick bade me ask you a favor, Kath- 
leen — to meet him at dusk at the Fairy Well. What an- 
swer am I to take back ?” 

Her heart gave a great throb — that foolish, untrained 


Netted in the Meshes. 


30 

little heart. Since that eventful evening, six weeks ago, 
she and her darling had never met. 

“Tell him I will go — I will be there V’ 

She rose as she said it, and glided from the room. Ger- 
ald Desm.ond looked after her, with his slight, chill smile. 

“I thought you would, and Fll make play with the hand- 
some donna meantime. Don’t look so down in the mouth, 
my dear old governor ; all will come right in the end. 
Rory will talk like half a dozen fathers to her, and a word 
from him will have weight. By Jove! it will be as good 
as a play to hear him pleading Morgan’s cause. Keep up 
heart, old friend; you’ll have the Sassenach for your son- 
in-law in a month’.T time.” 

With which, Mr. Gerald sauntered away, whistling soft- 
ly, and with that cold, chill smile yet on his inscrutable 
face. 

It was a wild and lonely spot, on the wild and lonely 
mountain-side, where the crystal spring bubbled up from 
the velvet turf. The Fairy Well had its magic charm, and 
lovers came from far and near to drink its enchanted 
waters together, and be ‘aithful and true forever. 

And here Kathleen stood, whilst the eerie evening light 
deepened and darkened, and the night wind blew bleak 
from the sea. 

A great sadness lay on the girl’s face, and. the blue eyes 
looked over the darkening landscape with a still, weary de- 
spair. 

“If I could only die,” she thought, “and end it all. Life 
is so bitter, so long, and the right is so hard to find.” 

A step came fleetly down "the hi^l-side, and Kathleen’s 
heart gave one great leap. A tall, slender form came 
springing lightly over the turf, and a second later Lord 
Roderick Desmond .stood before her. 

Ah, Kathleen, it was “seething the kid in its mother’s 
milk” to bring you there to look in that face, beautiful 
with man’s best beauty, to listen to the voice you loved 
so dearly, pleading the cause of another man. 

She looked up once; then her eyes fell, and she half 
turned away. He saw the change in that poor, pale face 
— so sunny, so rosy, six short weeks before — and the 
sharpest p?no; of remorse he had ever felt in his whole life 
pierced his heart. It was his work, and he knew it. 


Netted in the Meshes. 


31 


“Kathleen, Kathleen!” he said, tenderly, taking both 
her hands— “my dear little Kathleen, how sadly you are 
changed V 

He bent above her — a promising beginning — and just 
on the moment two figures appeared among the shadowy 
rocks below — Gerald Desmond and the Spanish donna. 

“Look there!” Gerald Desmond whispered; “see for 
yourself, Donna Inez, how tender, how true your lover 
can be. Yonder he is with his first love, his pretty Kath- 
leen.” 

“Ah-h-h !” It was a long, fiery, heart-wrung breath, 
and the great black eyes were terrible in their dusky fire. 
“Traitor! dastard! villain! he shall dearly pay for this 
night’s work ! Leave me, Senor Gerald ; I shall play the 
spy alone.” 

“But, Lady Inez — ” 

“Leave me” — she stamped her foot on the yielding turf, 
and looked at him with a fiery glance before which he 
quailed — “leave me, I command ! The wrong and the 
shame are mine — mine be the retribution ! Leave me this 
instant! You have guided me here; I want you no 
longer.” 

She looked like a fiery young Eastern sultana ordering 
a slave to the bowstring — imperious, wrathful, terrible. 
He bowed low before her, and went at once. 

She snatched something from the folds of her dress — 
something that gleamed and glistened blue and deadly in 
the gray gloaming — a keen Spanish stiletto. 

“The race of d’Alvarez never take insult without giving 
back death!” she said, between her clenched white teeth. 
“False traitor ! you will see how Inez d’Alvarez can 
avenge her own wrongs !” 

And then, with her black mantilla drawn close about her 
supple figure, her eyes glowing like black flame, her teeth 
set and glistening between her parted lips, the unseen 
Nemesis bent forward to look and listen. 





32 


How the Spider Wove His Web. 


CHAPTER V. 

HOW the: spide:r wovi^ his we:b. 

Gerald Desmond’s own clever brain and crafty plot- 
ting had brought about this pretty tableau ; no happy chap- 
ter of accidents. He had laid his traps, ‘‘whilst, all un- 
conscious of their doom, the little victims played,” and he 
snared his birds cleverly, like the skilled fowler he was. 

On the day following that unpleasant little misunder- 
standing between the affianced, the two cousins had gone 
to the moors, with their dogs and their guns, Gerald, with 
his lighted Manila between his teeth, smoked and talked 
with his customary easy good nature ; but Lord Roderick’s 
handsome face wore a cloud that rarely visited that sunlit 
countenance. His answers were all absent and at ran- 
dom ; his thoughts were not with his companion, nor their 
prospective sport. Gerald shrugged his shoulders, and 
gave it up at last. 

“Pleasant companion, you are, for a day’s sport, I mu^t 
say!” he remarked; “encouraging, certainly, to ask the 
same question three times over, and then get a vacant 
stare by way of reply! Be as dull as death, old fellow, if 
you choose. I believe it’s the normal state of you lovers 
out of sight of your Dulcineas.” 

“I beg your pardon, Ger,” Lord Roderick said, rousing 
himself; “I have been absent, I am afraid. You have no 
one to thank for it but yourself, though. You shouldn’t 
have told me about little Kathleen O’Neal, if you wanted 
an agreeable companion.” 

“Remorse-stricken, eh ? Really, Rory, you are an orig- 
inal, and should have lived in the days when men wore 
the red cross on their legs, and fought to the last gasp for 
the Holy Sepulchre. You are entirely thrown away in 
the present prosaic age, my dear Sir Charles Grandison. 
All in the dismals, forsooth ! because a pretty little peasant 
girl chooses to yield, incontinently, to your invincible 
prowess !” 

“For heaven’s sake, Gerald, leave off your chaffing and 
talk common sense !” broke out Rory, impatiently. “Your 


33 


How tlie Spider Wove His Web. 

wit may be very brilliant in Lincoln’s Inn, and your Vol- 
taireism cf the first water, but your jests and cynicisms 
are alike thrown away upon us Irish barbarians. I don’t 
want to believe what you tell me about Kathleen, God 
knows ; but if it be true — why, then, Gerald, Fm afraid — 
all unconsciously — I’ve been a villain !” 

“Very likely, dear boy. You mean you’ve made love to 
her ? Why, so you have ; but at the same time — with all 
respect to Kathleen — she has made love to you, too. We 
men get all the blame in these cases, and it’s not fair upon 
us poor devils. We make love, without doubt; but the 
pretty ones — bless their hearts ! — as a rule, meet us half- 
way, and are most uncommonly willing to have it made. 
You have been courting Kathleen ever since you could lisp 
and exchange love tokens in the shape of sweetmeats ; and 
Kathleen took the kisses and the bonbons, with the keen- 
est relish for both, and held out her two hands for more. 
It’s their nature — dear, little tender-hearted, tender- 
headed things ! Never fret, dear boy — a wedding-dress 
and a plain gold ring, and the ‘undivided devotion of one 
honest heart,’ as they say in ladies’ novels, will console her 
for your loss.” 

“Meaning Morgan, the cockney attorney, I suppose?” 
said Lord Roderick, rather surlily. “I tell you what, Ger- 
ald, I’d rather see a good many other things happen than 
see our little Wicklow rosebud tied for life to that grim 
old cactus. I hate to imagine her sweet little face along- 
side of that ugly, sleek-mouthed Englishman’s !” 

“Ah !” Gerald said, airily, “sits the wind in that quar- 
ter ? My faith ! I begin to believe Lady Inez has some 
grounds for jealousy, after all. My artless Rory! who 
would think you could be so dog-in-the-mangerish ? You 
Can’t marry the little one yourself, and you don’t want any 
one else to marry her ! How the donna’s black eyes 
vrould lighten if she heard you, to be sure !” 

“The donna !” Rory repeated, sharply ; “what does the 
donna know of Kathleen ?” 

“Very little as yet, I allow ; but enough to make her in- 
tensely jealous. Are you so blind and so stupid, my boy, 
as not to know what ailed her last night? And upon my 
honor, I begin to believe she has more reason than I 
thought.” 


34 


How tlie Spider Wove His Web. 

“Stufif and nonsense! If Kathleen be willing, she may 
marry the man in the moon for me. And assuredly I 
shall never forbid the bans between her and Morgan.’' 

“Ah !” his cousin said, with one of his long, lazy sighs ; 
“but the bans will never be published, dear boy, unless you 
plead Morgan’s cause.” 

Rory opened his clear blue eyes in wide, indignant won- 
der. 

I’ll see Morgan at the devil first!” 

“Well, it’s probable you both will meet there some day. 
However, it’s a little hard at present, all the same. See 
here, Rory, you’ve been very fond of Kathleen, and she of 
you, all along; absurdly fond on her part, I must say. 
Donna Inez appears upon the scene; you save her life in 
the most romantic and sensational manner, and you fall 
in love with her headlong, after the most approved ro- 
mance-hero fashion. You forget Kathleen immediately — 
man-like ; but the poor little willow-wearer comes a-woo- 
ing. She can’t believe herself deserted ; she can’t believe 
you really mean to marry another, and she won’t listen to 
reason and marry that very clever little fellow, Morgan, 
as she ought. And if she doesn't hear to reason, before 
the month is out, he’ll turn them both, father and daugh- 
ter, neck and crop, into the street. That old fool — O’Neal 
— has been at his former tricks, and has gambled and lost 
the roof above his head, and the duds upon his back. 
Morgan gives them their choice — marriage or misery — a 
wedding-ring or the work-house. Kathleen can’t see 
which way duty lies, as yet; but a word from you will 
make it plain and palpable.” 

“That unmitigated scoundrel !” Rory cried, ferociously. 
“I always knew Morgan was a cold-blooded villain! Fll 
pay him the old man’s debts, and horsewhip him within an 
inch of his life after !” 

“My valiant Don Quixote! Unfortunately, you can't. 
Mr. Morgan declines all alternatives but the two I have 
mentioned. He loves money, but he loves his revenge 
more. And, after all, you might do Kathleen greater ser- 
vice than horsewhipping the man who wants to marry her. 
What would you have? She can’t do better.” 

“But she abhoVs him.” 

“Or thinks she does. He is not handsome, and my 


How the Spider Wove His Web. 35 

Lord Rory is. If I were Kathleen, I should prefer Lord 
Rory; too ’’ 

Rory ground out an impatient oath. 

“The devil’s in it ! And if Inez ever hears — Gerald, 
what ought I to do 

“You ought to see Kathleen and tell her to marry Mor- 
gan, and that you will make her a present of her wedding- 
dress. Else, I can not answer for the consequences. She 
may come up to Clontarf in a fit of desperation — women 
do these things — ^demand an interview with the donna, 
and claim her prior right in you.” 

“Nonsense, Gerald !” Lord Rory cried, alarmed. “Kath- 
leen is not the girl to do that.” 

“All girls are alike when crossed in love ; they’ll do any- 
thing, my lad. Come, come, Rory, don’t be squeamish. 
See the little one ; tell her you’re about to don the rosy fet- 
ters of — what’s his name ? — Hymen, and urge her to, go 
and do likewise. It’s the best service you can render her, 
and the only atonement for the past.” 

“So be it, then!” Rory said, with something like a 
groan. “And yet — may Old Nick fly away with Morgan 
before his wedding-day !” 

It was late when they returned, with well-filled game- 
bags. The moor fowl had been plentiful, the sport good, 
and Lord Rory had shaken off his gloom as a bird shakes 
the rain off its glistening wings. 

He looked handsome and happy as a young prince when 
he entered the drawing-room of the castle, the half-hour 
before dinner, and found his dark-eyed betrothed there 
alone. He bent over her and kissed, with all the ardor of 
a lover and an Irishman, the low, dark brow. 

“My darling, has the cloud quite gone? Tell me now 
how I offended last night, Inez.” 

The dark eyes looked at him earnestly and long. 

“Lord Roderick, who is Kathleen ?” 

He reddened, half in guilt, half in angry impatience. 
Kathleen was becoming the Nemesis of his life. 

“My dearest, who has been talking to you? What do 
you know of Kathleen ?” 

“That you loved her, my lord — nay, that you love her 
still.” 

“Inez !” 

“Lord Roderick, is it not true?” 


36 How tHe Spider Wove His Web. 

“True? No! I swear it by the heaven above us! I 
never loved Kathleen. She was my playmate — my 'little 
favorite, if you will ; but to love her — no, Inez ! I never 
knew what love meant until I saw youT 

Her face lighted, her eyes gleamed. He looked so 
noble, so kingly, so truthful — her golden-haired hero ! 

“You swear this, Roderick?” 

“By my soul’s hope, yes ! I love you, and you alone, 
my queen, my darling, and I never loved any other.” 

“I believe you.” She laid her hands in his, her dark, 
impassioned face radiant. “Oh, my love, my lord, it has 
been very bitter to doubt your truth !” 

“Never doubt again, Inez ; never wrong yourself, my 
peerless darling, by the thought that the man you have 
honored by your love could ever look upon the face of 
any other woman. Here are the others. Promise me, 
my love, my bride, before they enter, never to doubt me 
more.” 

She turned her brilliant, beautiful face toward him, 
cloudless now ; but the promise that would have bound 
her fast as her marriage vow was not destined to be given, 
for Gerald Desmond came suddenly forward, with words 
of gay and gallant greeting on his lips. 

“You appeared indisposed last night. I trust I see you 
entirely restored this evening, Donna Inez. We cannot 
afford to have the sunshine of Clontarf clouded.” 

The donna’s reply was a negligent bow. 

The earl — a bluff, unwieldy Athelstan, with yet the re- 
mains of great good looks in the midst of his corpulency — • 
entered with his sister. Lady Sarah — a vestal virgin of the 
old school — and the family party adjourned to dinner. 

Gerald Desmond — a brilliant conversationalist at all 
times — outshone himself to-day. His racy anecdotes of 
all the best and most noted people of England, his witty 
sayings, his epigrams, kept the jovial old earl in a con- 
stant roar. 

Even that grim virgin, Lady Sarah, relaxed into occa- 
sional smiles, and Rory, happy in the renewed sunlight of 
his liege lady’s smiles, was almost as sparkling and ani- 
mated as his delightful cousin. 

His inspiration sat beside him, with the last level rays 
of the sunset slanting through her dead-black hair and 


How tHe Spider Wove His Web. 37 

glorious soft Spanish eyes, lighting up the rare Castilian 
loveliness into a picture fit for Guido or Raphael. 

She, too, smiled languidly now and then at the dashing 
young London barrister’s wit, as she trifled with the wing 
of a bird or her glass of rare old vintage. 

But he was no especial favorite of hers, this light-eyed, 
light-haired, glib-tongued young man, and she rather 
avoided him, usually, than otherwise. 

That night, long after the family had retired, the Lon- 
don barrister sat by his chamber window smoking, and 
indolently surveying the starry heavens, as seen through 
clouds of cavendish. He usually confined himself to the 
mildest Manilas. To-night he smoked a pipe, loaded to 
its black muzzle — a sure sign of deep thinking and danger 
ahead. 

“How lovely she looked to-night!” he thought, setting 
his strong teeth savagely on the stem of his pipe. “More 
darkly beautiful than the Cenci herself! And to think 
tliat he — that shallow-loaded, conceited, overgrown boy — 

should win so glorious a prize, whilst I By heaven 

and all its starry hosts, he shall not win ! Not while my 
brain has power to plot, or my right hand cunning to 
work ! What are they all — Rory, Kathleen, the donna 
herself — but puppets, who dance as / pull the strings? 
I have hated Rory Desmond, my handsome, high-born, 
princely cousin, ever since I have known what it was to 
envy or covet. Now the time to strike him from his high 
estate has come, and I swear to-night that Donna d’Al- 
varez and her regal fortune shall be mine, if I have to 
walk over my rival’s dead body to reach her hand !” 

He ground his teeth vindictively. An instant after — 
so strong had habit become — he laughed softly in de- 
rision of himself. 

“Such inflated language — such very bad ‘form’ ! — fit 
only for the boards of tlie Princess. Bah ! even the ven- 
detta has gone out in Corsica. We don’t go down to the 
foot-lights, like Macduff, and, with our eyes fixed on the 
chandelier and our sham swords outstretched, swear eter- 
nal vengeance on our foe. No; we don’t do that sort of 
thing — bad taste! We smoke our Cubas, lift our hats 
to one another, and say little. But some fine morning 
onr Macbeth is pinked under tlie fifth rib, among the 
dewy grass and cowslips, and Monsieur Macduff’s wife 


38 How the Spider Wove His Web. 

and interesting family are quietly avenged, all the same. 
1 can slay, and smile while the knife is in mine enemy’s 
vitals !” 

The next afternoon Mr. Desmond walked over to the 
cottage of old O’Neal, and had that interview with father 
and daughter. When he left the old man and returned 
to the castle, he found his cousin awaiting him with an 
anxious face^ 

“It’s all right, Rory, lad!” he said, cheerily. “She will 
meet you at dusk at the Fairy Well, and, by the same 
token, you have no time to spare, if you would not keep 
a lady waiting. It grows dusk now. Where is the 
donna?” 

“In the drawing-room, with Lady Sarah. Confound it 
all, Gerald I I would rather go to my hanging than to 
this meeting with poor Kathleen I” 

“Would you, dear boy? Now, how inconsistent that 
is, after sending me to make the appointment ! But as 
you please. Shall I go in your stead, and tell Kathleen 
you are too — how shall we name it? — too nervous to 
come?” 

“Pooh! At the Fairy Well, did you say? Go, keep 
Lady Inez from feeling lonely until I return. She wished 
me to take her out for a walk, by the bye. Do you take 
her, Ger.” 

“Ah ! she wished you to take her out ? What excuse 
did you make?” 

“Told her I had an appointment with a friend. Go — 
there’s a good fellow ! — keep her amused till I come back.” 

He started off briskly, and Gerald looked after him 
with a slow, evil smile. Then he turned and entered the 
house. 

Lady Sarah sat by one of the windows, trying to read 
by a pale, gray light. The donna stood listlessly at an- 
other, looking out over the wide sea. She turned quickly 
at the sound of footsteps, but her face clouded when she 
saw who it was. 

“The evening is pleasant. Lady Inez. Is it not a pity 
to spend it in-doors ? What do you say to a walk ?” 

“Thank you, senor,” very coldly. “I will wait, I think, 
until Lord Roderick returns.” 

“Ah !” 

There was a world of meaning in that one little word, 


How the Spider Wove His Web. 39 

a world of innuendo in the smile that accompanied it. 
She caught both, and turned upon him like lightning. 

“What do you mean, senor?” 

“My dear Lady Inez, nothing.” 

But the smile was still there — amused, contemptuous, 
compassionate. The great Castilian eyes lit up, and the 
one little hand clenched fiercely. 

“You mean something. Do not speak falsehoods to 
me, Senor Gerald. Whither has my lord gone?” 

“He has told you. To meet — a friend.” 

“And that friend?” 

“Your pardon, senorita. Lord Roderick’s secrets are 
his own.” 

She was white with jealousy already, and the dark eyes 
were full of glowing fire.' 

“Senor,” she said in a husky, breathless whisper, “you 
are my friend — you say you are. You will tell me where 
he has gone. Ah, Dios! See, I plead to you — I, Inez 
d’Alvarez! You will tell me, will you not?” 

“But it would be treason to him.” 

“He need never know. Do you think I would betray 
you? Senor Gerald, tell me, or I will nevfer look at you 
again while I live !” 

“Sooner than that Lady Inez, do you insist?” 

“I do — I command !” 

“Then come with me. Your word is my law. To 
pleasure you I would lay down my life !” 

She scarcely heard him ; she certainly did not under- 
stand him. She snatched up a mantilla of velvet and 
lace, threw it over her head and about her, and flitted 
with him out of the room. 

Lady Sarah, absorbed in her “Imitations,” was con- 
veniently deaf and blind. 

She took his arm, and they walked rapidly and in 
silence through the evening shadows. Once only she 
spoke, and the question came in a hissing whisper : 

“Is it to meet her he has gone?” 

“It is.” 

He heard the gasp with which she caught her breath ; 
he saw the mortal whiteness of the face looking out from 
the folds of velvet and lace. 

“Women of her fiery blood have murdered the man 
they loved for less,” he thought. 


Face to Face. 


40 

The dusk was deepening fast as they reached the foot 
of the mountain. Half-way up its green breast the Fairy 
Well bubbled, and in the twilight the two stood, as lovers 
stand keeping tryst, her hands clasped in his, his golden, 
handsome head bent above her. 

''Look!’’ Gerald Desmond whispered. "See for your- 
self, Donna Inez, how tender, how true, 3^our lover can 
be! Yonder he stands with his first love, his pretty 
Kathleen !” 


CHAPTER VI. 
i^ace: to tack. 

She drooped before him as a broken lily droops before 
the wind. She did not look unlike a broken lily herself — 
wan as a spirit of moonlight, so sad, so pale, so silent. 

The heart of young Lord Roderick went out to his 
little playmate in great compassion. She loved him — he 
knew it — loved him so dearly and so vainly that all her 
bright, girlish bloom was gone. 

The light faded from the sparkling eyes, the dancing 
smiles and dimples from the mignonne face. She loved 
him ; and that man has yet to be born whose masculine 
A^anity is not inexpressibly soothed and flattered by hom- 
age so sweet. For those fair "stricken deer” who fall 
hopelessly before them thev^ have a complacent and in- 
finite pity, which, for the time being, is next-door neigh- 
bor to a much warmer feeling. A man’s pity for a woman 
is but one degree removed from love; a woman’s for a 
man, very closely allied to contempt. 

"My little Kathleen,” Rory said, "you have grown as 
white as the foam of the sea — you, my little Irish rose- 
bud ! You have not been ill ?” 

He bent his golden head to catch her answer, holding 
both hands in his own. 

The Avatcher, in the twilight, set her pearly teeth, and, 
had looks been lightning, the two standing before her 
Avould have been blasted there and then. 

Kathleen looked quickly up, her pale cheeks flushing. 
Some subtle, womanly instinct told her Avhat that deeply 
compassionate tone meant, and her Irish spirit rose on 


Face to Face. 


41 

the instant. She drew her hands away, and looked at 
him, quietly and steadily, full in the face. 

“I have not been ill. Lord Roderick. Mr. Gerald told 
me — told my father and me, this afternoon — that you 
especially wished to see me here thi's evening, and I have 
come.’^ 

“Yes/’ Rory said, a little embarrassed, ‘'I did — I do. 
It is about your father I would speak to you, Kathleen. 
I know all.” 

“All ?” 

The blue eyes flashed upon him, the cheeks flushed 
deeper. He could see the rapid throbbing of her heart. 
Every feminine instinct rose in alarm to guard her hidden 
secret from him. 

“All, Kathleen — your father’s misfortune, his losses at 
the gaming-table, this man Morgan’s power. And they 
want vou to marry Morgan, Kathleen?” 

“They do.” 

“And you?” He spoke a little hurriedly. He did not 
want to marry Kathleen himself. He was not in the least 
in love with her ; but she loved him, and she was an ex- 
ceedingly pretty girl, and — oh, vanity of the best of men ! 
— he did not want her to wed another. “What have you 
said to them, Kathleen?” 

Her head drooped ; she made a little, passionate gesture 
as she turned away. To have him stand here — loving 
him with her whole heart — asking her this, was the bitter- 
est .pang of all. 

“Kathleen, my little playmate, they shall not force you 
— those others. Not even 3^our father shall sacrifice you 
for his own selfish ends. If your heart says no, my little 
Kathleen, I’ll see Morgan at the devil before he’ll ever 
marry you !” 

The impetuous blue eyes flashed, the impetuous, boyish 
voice rang out. He towered up before her, a golden- 
haired King David, beautiful and bright as ever was the 
poet-king of Israel. And he had come here to plead that 
unhappy Morgan’s cause ! 

“I’ll pay your father’s debts myself, and if that petti- 
fogging cockney attorney makes one demur. I’ll pitch him 
neck and crop into Wicklow Bay \ Hang his English 
impudence ! How dare the bandy-legged scoundrel think 


Face to Face. 


42 

to force the prettiest little girl in Clontarf to marry 
him, whether she will or no?’' 

She looked up at him with shining eyes and parted lips 
and glowing face — her grand, impetuous young protec- 
tor ! And never in all her life had Kathleen loved her 
lordly lover as she did in that hour. 

“ ’Gad !” Rory cried, swelling with indignation the more 
he thought of it ; “marry you to pay your father’s gam- 
bling debts, indeed ! Confound his impertinence ! Con- 
found all their impertinences ! Do they think themselves 
Bashaws of Three Tails, and you a little Georgian, up 
for sale ? I’ll go to the cottage this very evening and see 
that besotted father of yours, and after that I’ll go to 
Morgan; and if he won’t hear to reason. I’ll break his 
head !” 

He looked quite capable of doing it, or any other reck- 
less Quixotism, this fair-haired, flashing-eyed, hare- 
brained young descendant of fiery Irish kings, as he stood 
there in the twilight, drawn up to his superb six-foot 
height. And Kathleen, glowing and uplifted, raised one 
of his hands and kissed it. 

“Dear Lord Roderick, no ! Ah ! how good you are, 
how noble, how generous ! I will never forget it as long 
as I live. But it is all in vain. Morgan is like Shylock ; 
he will have his bond, his pound of flesh — nothing less 
nor more. My father’s ruin, or — my father’s daughter. 
There is no choice between.” 

“The black-hearted ” 

“Lord Rory, hush ! Let me speak. For you to use 
violence or threats to Morgan would only make a bad 
matter much worse; for you to plead to him is an utter 
impossibility ; and neither would move him in the least- 
lie is harder than iron, that man. My father is completely 
in his power. I alone can save him, and — I wilH” 

The little slender figure drew up to its full height, the 
starry eyes flashed, the wan cheeks glowed like June roses. 
He was her inspiration. Her blood was up, and she was 
ready for anything now. 

“But, Kathleen,” Rory cried, aghast, “you hate this 
devil of a Morgan !” 

“Then heaven send me a better spirit. We are all un- 
just to Morgan. My father’s folly is no blame to him. 
He wishes to marry me;” her head drooped and her voice 


Face to Face. 


'43 

fell ; ‘‘he would compel me to marry him — true ; but, Lord 
Roderick — he loves me.’' 

“My little Kathleen!'’ 

It was all he could say. His heart was full of pity, 
full of remorse, full of savage hatred of that man. She 
looked so pretty, so sad, so fragile; and he, with all his 
strength and rank, was so powerless ! 

He ground his teeth and clenched his fist, and thought 
what an unutterable satisfaction it would be to punch 
Morgan’s head ! 

“He loves me, I know it — in his way,” Kathleen went 
on, hurriedly, her voice faltering in spite of her; “and I 
— well, I may grow to like him a little by and by. If I 
marry him — and I must — I will be his true and faithful 
wife in word and deed and thought. And, Lord Rory, 
after to-night it may be — it must be — a long time before 
we meet again ; and so — I — I will wish you joy — you and 
your bride — now and — — ” 

Her voice choked ; she stopped, covering her face with 
her hands. It was the last time, and she loved him so 
dearly, so dearly I 

“Oh, Kathleen !” 

“Good-by, Lord Rory ! May the good God bless you 
forever! And don’t come to our cottage any more. I 
want to do my duty. Don’t make that hard duty any 
harder than it is now.” 

“Kathleen, listen to me !” he cried, passionately. “You 
shall not marry Morgan! I say it — I swear it! If he 
won’t listen to fair measures, and let me pay yoUr father’s 
debts, he shall listen to foul, by ” 

Her little hand closed gently over his lips. 

“Hush, my lord ! No, no ! Would you make my 
name the country’s talk ? Would you ruin my father and 
disgrace me? No; you can do nothing — you must do 
nothing. If you ever cared for your old playmate. Lord 
Rory, take her good wishes now, and leave her — forever !” 

She held out her hand with a sob. Both of his closed 
over it, and there was a hot mist before the brilliant, azure 
eyes. 

“Kathleen ! Kathleen ! what can I say ” 

She interrupted him with a gesture of inexpressible 
pain. 

“Say nothing, do nothing, my lord; only leave me. 


Two Promises. 


44 ‘ 

There is no feeling in my heart but kindness and good- 
will to you. Let there be none in yours but some pleasant 
memory of the little girl who was once your playmate. 
Oh, my lord, it grows late, and I — I am not strong ! Go, 
if you have any pity, and leave me by myself.” 

“Good-by, then, Kathleen, but not forever, not for 
long. This matter can not, must not, end like this.” 

He turned and left her ; it was her wish ; and he knew 
Kathleen feared not the gathering darkness, nor the lone- 
liness of these Wicklow hill-sides and glens. He took his 
last look at the little drooping figure, fluttering there in 
the windy twilight ; and who was to tell him that the sad 
blue eyes would be sealed forever, the sweet, beautiful lips 
chill in death, when he looked upon them next? 

The twilight gathered above her ; the moon rose round 
and crystal clear, sailing up over the purple sea. The 
night wind rose with it ; and, shivering more with the 
cold within than the cold of the autumn night, Kathleen 
turned slowly to go home, when an imperious voice, close 
beside her, rang out with one vibrating word : 

“Stay!” 

She sprang round with a little cry. There before her, 
dark and passionate, with dusky eyes of fire and gleaming 
dagger, stood the betrothed wife of the man she loved. 
There, on the lonely hill-side, stood the high-born Span- 
ish beauty and the Irish peasant-girl face to face! 


CHAPTER VII. " 

TWO PROMISES. 

It was a startling tableau. 

There, in the lonesome moonlight, on the deserted hill- 
side, the rivals met, and there was danger and death 
in the face of one. The glowing Castilian beauty was set 
in rigid whiteness ; the brilliant Spanish eyes, that could 
melt and grow dewy and sweet as the eyes of a young 
child, were ablaze with a terrible, lurid light now. 
Women of her fierce race and fiery blood had stabbed 
their base-born rivals, without a word, for far less, ere 
now. 

But Kathleen O’Neal was as “plucky” as she was 


Two Promises. 


45 

pretty. She recoiled a little, with a startled face, it is 
true, at first sight of this dangerous apparition, but after 
that she gave no sign of fear. She understood all in an 
instant, and drew herself up with as grand an air almost 
as my Lady Inez herself. 

^ The blue eyes met the black ones in a clear, steadfast, 
guiltless gaze. 

“And you dare to look me in the face, you traitress !” 
Lady Inez said, between her clenched, pearly teeth, 
“Are you not afraid I will murder you where you stand ?” 

The cloudless blue eyes never quailed, the fair cheek 
blanched not one whit, yet tie. dark daughter of the South 
before her looked quite capable of carrying out her threat. 

“Afraid, my lady!” Kathleen said, quietly, and a little 
disdainfully. “No I And I am no traitress. I never 
wronged you, my lady, and I am neither afraid of you nor 
your dagger.” 

She could not, had she been studying her answer for a 
lifetime, have answered better. The brave words, the 
brave eyes, disarmed and cooled the passionate Castilian, 
who admired courage in man or woman above all earthly 
attributes. 

“No, you are not afraid,” she said, in a sort of wonder, 
“and yet you have reason to be ; for you have lied to me, 
and you know it. How dare you meet my lover, my 
husband, here alone, by night and by stealth, if you be not 
the false traitress I have called you?” 

“Madame,” Kathleen answered, still unmoved, “I met 
him because he is the best, the bravest, the noblest, the 
most generous of mankind, who would save his old friend 
and tutor, my father, at any cost, at any sacrifice. He 
would pay his debts as he and his father have paid them 
before, and save me from a marriage with a man I ha-— 
whom I do not love.” 

“Ay, because he loves you himself?” 

“No, Lady Inez.” The sweet voice arose, the soft eyes 
grew wondrously bright. “No, Lady Inez ; never poor 
Kathleen. Oh, my lady, he loves you, and you alone, 
and it is no marvel, for you are beautiful as all the angels. 
I have been his little playmate ; I am his humble friend ; 
nay, more, I will own to you, who are to be his wife, that 
I love him, too.” 

The Spanish beauty retreated a step, and stood gazing 


Two Promises. 


46 

in wonder at her rival, brave beyond ever her dreams of 
bravery, who faced her dagger with fearless eyes, and who 
owned so heroically her hidden love. 

“That you, my lady, so beautiful, so high-born, should 
stoop to be jealous of poor little Kathleen, I can not 
think ; but if you ever have, for one single second, then 
you have basely wronged your noble lover. You have 
his whole heart, my lady. Oh, cherish it as it deserves, 
trust him as he trusts you, for there is not his equal on 
earth !“ 

Her face looked inspired in her unconscious eloquence. 
She had completely turned the tables, and it was the 
haughty donna who lowered her lofty crest now. 

“And Lord Roderick never loved you? You swear 
it?" 

“I swear nothing; but Lord Roderick never loved me. 
The folly, the madness, have all been mine." 

“Then I have been grossly deceived; and yet," her 
face, which had lighted eagerly, darkened, “it looked 
strangely suspicious — it does so still. If what you say be 
true, my little one, why, then, does he so oppose your 
marriage with this other?" 

“Ah, my lady," Kathleen pathetically said, “we have 
known each other so long! Will you not even let him be 
my friend? You, who are so happy, may pity me, who 
must wed a man I abhor. He would save me if he could. 
Would you, my Lady Inez, do less for the playmate of 
your youth?" 

“No!" The impulsive Spanish beauty, as impetuous 
in her likes as her hatred, flung away her dagger and 
caught both Kathleen’s hands. “No, my little one; and 
you shall not marry a man you abhor! Ah, Dios! how 
horrible is the thought! We will save vou — mv lord and 
I !" 

Kathleen drew her hands away, very gently, but very 
resolutely. She was brave to the core, but not brave 
enough to endure the caresses of the woman Lord Rod- 
erick Desmond loved. 

“You are very good, my lady, and I thank you, as I 
did him, but it may not be. You can do nothing save 
give me your good wishes. My duty lies before me. 
fl'he way may be hard, but I will follow it. You can do 
me but one favor, and that is, trust your lover." 


Two Promises. 


47 

“Until death, from this hour! But, my little one, is 
there nothing I can do for you?” 

“Nothing. Farewell 1” 

She waved her hand and fluttered away with the words 
on her lips. The heart in her bosom lay heavy as lead, 
but Kathleen had no thought within it of self-laudation. 
Less generous sacrifice has sounded its trumpet before 
the world, and called itself martyrdom. 

She sprang along in the moonlight as fleetly as a 
young deer, and as gracefully. Her life was at an end, it 
seemed to her,, but the sharp after-pain was yet to. come. 
Now she felt nothing but a dumb sense of misery and 
weariness, a sick loathing of herself and her life. 

“And I am only eighteen !” she thought, drearily; “and 
life is so long, so long!” 

Her way was unutterably lonely; she met no living 
thing as she sprang lightly over the hillocks. 

Wondrously lovely the silver light lay on lakelet and 
tarn, on brown hill-side and purple heather and shining 
sea. Crystal clear and numberless the white stars swung 
in the blue-black sky, calm and cloudless and serene. 

As her cottage home came in sight she leaned against a 
sycamore waving in the wind, and looked on all that hush 
and beauty and peace with strangely solemn eyes of blue. 

“And what does it matter, after all ?” Kathleen thought 
— “a few years more or less, joy or gladness, in this lower 
world? It all ends in six feet of earth — and home is 
yonder !” 

“Kathleen!” 

A voice at her elbow spoke. She wheeled quickly 
around. A short, thick-set man, with a bull-dog face and 
a profusion of red whiskers, stood beside her. 

“You, Mr. Morgan ?” 

“Me, Kathleen !” he said, sullenly. The habitual ex- 
pression of his face was a mingling of low cunning and 
sullen ferocity. “Fve come for your hanswer.” 

She shivered all over. Oh, Rory ! In his bright, best 
beauty he rose before her, glorious in his youth, mag- 
nificent manhood as ever the Apollo of the gods ; and by 
her side stood this human satyr she must wed ! 

“Fve been to the cottage,” Morgan sulkily pursued, 
“and I’ve seen your father. He told me you were hout 


Two Promises. 


48 

with Lord Rory Desmond. Now, what had he to say to 
you, I should like to know?’' 

“What you never will know,” Kathleen replied, very 
calmly. “Mr. Morgan, have you no pity, no mercy ? 
Will you not spare my father and wait ? He is a very old, 
broken-down man.” 

“All the more reason why I should not delay. The old 
fellow may go off the ’ooks any day, and I may whistle 
for my money then. But it isn’t money I want, my pretty 
little Irish girl ; it’s you !” 

She stretched out her hands with a dry, heart-breaking 
sob. 

“Have pity on me ! spare me ! I don’t love you ; I 
never can love you ” 

“No !” Morgan broke in, with a fierce gleam of his eyes 

and a hissing oath — “no ! and you do love this d ? 

young lordling, with his woman’s face and his yellow 
hair ! I hate him, and I’d marry you if only to spite him ! 
Say the word, Kathleen O’Neal, and say it to-night! 
Marry me, or see your old fool of a father rot in Clontarf 
jail !” 

She sprang erect and looked at him — looked him down, 
coward and bully as he was — with her great, flashing, 
fearless blue eyes. 

“You ruffian! with no respect for woman, no fear of 
God ! Y ou know you dare not call your craven soul your 
own in the presence of Lord Roderick Desmond ! My 
father shall never set foot in Clontarf jail, for I will marry 
you — yes, if I loathed and despised you tenfold as much 
as I do! .You have my promise, Mr. Morgan; I will 
marry you as soon as you like 1” 

She turned her back upon him with the last ringing, 
scornful words, and walked with the mien of a young 
empress into the cottage. 

The bull-dog face of the English pettifogger were its 
most villainous scowl as he watched her out of sight. 

“And when you do, mistress,” he ground out between 
his bull-dog teeth, “I’ll make you pay for every insolent 
word I” 

5k ^ ^ 5k ;k 5k 

Whilst the purple twilight shifted to silvery moonlight, 
Gerald Desmond stood in the lonely glen below the Fairy, 
Well and waited. He had, in an eminent degree, that one 


Two Promises. 


49 

virtue which all good haters, all thorough villains, should 
possess — patience. He had learned completely what so 
few of us ever learn — how to wait. Where he leaned 
against the moss-grown rocks, he smoked his Cuba and 
looked from under his felt hat at the dark-blue patch of 
sky all gemmed with crystal stars. Not of their tremu- 
lous beauty was he thinking, but of his own astuteness — 
how cleverly he had meshed his victims in the toils. 

'‘Ah, rny haughty, handsome, dark-eyed donna,” he 
mused, “what do you think of your beloved one now?” 

A light, fleet step came swift as a young fawn's down 
the glen at the moment. He swung around, and beheld 
the Castilian heiress speeding swiftly and lightly along. 

“Donna Inez !” He flung away his cheroot and went 
to meet her ; but the donna recoiled, with a look her face 
had worn for him more than once before. 

“You, Senor Gerald? I thought you had gone home!'’ 

“And left you in this wild and lonely place by your- 
self? Really, Lady Inez, you pay me but a poor compli- 
ment.” 

He laughed as he spoke, and offered her his arm. She 
shrank away with a look of cold disdain. 

“No, senor; I can make my way unaided. Did not 
Lord Roderick pass you on his homeward walk ?” 

“Without seeing me — yes. And you, Lady Inez, you 
heard and saw — enough?” 

“To convince me that we might have spent our time 
more pleasantly and profitably than in playing the spy 
and eavesdropper — yes, senor! That my lord is true 
to the core of his brave and generous and noble heart, 
and that we are baser than the basest to doubt him and 
dog him. He is no lover of Kathleen’s. I have it from 
her own lips.” 

“Curse the little fool !” Gerald Desmond muttered 
under his breath. 

“My first act,” Donna Inez went on, her dark eyes 
flashing, “when I reach the castle, will be to go to Lord 
Roderick, confess all my baseness, and beg his pardon. 
That it should be granted, I do not deserve ; but he loves 
me, and he is great-hearted — he will grant it.” 

Her companion laughed — his slight, chill laugh, that 
always had a latent, unpleasant sneer. 

“Let me congratulate you, Donna Inez. I rejoice sin- 


Two Promises. 


50 

cerely that we have both been deceived, and that Rory has 
come forth from the ordeal by fire unsinged. At the same 
time — let me bid you good-by.” 

“Good-by! And why, senor?” 

“Because a scene, a quarrel, are so very unpleasant, 
and I foresee both in prospective. With the best of mo- 
tives, I have led you into error; as you say, we have 
played the spy, and my lordly cousin is a little of a fire- 
eater when aroused. Rory and I have never had a quar- 
rel as yet — I am absurdly fond of the lad. I will shirk 
a quarrel now if I*'can.” 

The dark, disdainful eyes of the donna flashed scorn- 
fitliv upon him in the moonlight. 

“You take a strange way of showing your fondness, 
senor. Rest easy; there shall be no scene — no quarrel. 
I confess my own faults '/I tell no tales of others. My 
lord shall never know from me that the friend he trusts, 
the kinsman he loves, strove to betray him.” 

“Donna Inez!” 

“Enough, Senor Gerald. We will waste no words on 
this subject. I think, after to-night, I shall understand 
you thoroughly.” 

She waved him down with the imperious grace of an 
insulted empress, and sped on so fleetly that 'it was all 
he could do, with his long, man’s strides, to keep up with 
her. Not another word was exchanged. Gerald Des- 
mond ground his teeth in “curses, not loud, but deep.” 
As the best gamesters must, occasionally, he had staked 
and — lost. 

Rory stood alone in the low, long, old-fashioned draw- 
ing-room with a very mystified face. Lady Inez was not 
in her room, not in the house — neither was Gerald. 
Where had they gone? 

She swept in as he stood there alone in dense perplex- 
ity, her dark, Castilian loveliness all aglow, the Spanish 
eyes brilliant as stars, the rich, black hair falling loose and 
long. She flung off her mantilla and crossed over to 
where he stood, clasped both hands round his arm, and 
looked up in his face with wondrous shining eyes of 
splendor. 

“My lord! my love! can you ever forgive me?” 

“Inez!” 

“Ah, no kisses, no caresses, until you know how low 


Two Promises. 


5 ?^ 

I have fallen, how unworthy I am. Lord Roderick, I 
have been playing the spy !” 

“Upon me?” 

It flashed upon him at once — the truth. She had sus- 
pected — had followed — had seen him meet Kathleen. 

“Upon you, my lord, base wretch that lam! I doubted 
— I followed you ; I saw you meet her out yonder. Ah, 
my lord, we Castilians run fire in our veins, not blood 1 
I was mad, I think ; I could have slain you both where 
you stood. But I waited until you left, and then ” 

He gave a great cry, held her from him. 

“Inez! Inez! you have not injured her?” 

“No, my lord ! Yet — Madre di Dios! who knows what 
I might have done? I have not injured her, and she 
has told me all.” 

“All ! What has she told you, Inez ?” 

“How good you are — how great — ah, my lord, I never 
loved you as I do to-ni^ht ! — how you would save her 
father; and best of all, how you never, never loved her!” 

“Poor little Kathleen!” 

There was more than pity in his voice. He knew that 
all the greatness was hers, not his. 

“My lord, can you forgive Inez? It was base, coward- 
ly, it was ignoble to do it ; but, ah, heaven ! I thought I 
had lost you, and I love you better than my life.” 

“Forgive is no word between us, my darling. But you 
did me a cruel wrong when you doubted me. She is my 
little friend ; you, my love, are the light of my life. And 
Gerald, Inez — was he with you, too?” 

“Senor Gerald is out yonder, on the terrace, smoking,” 
she said, hurriedly, and with a nervous little laugh. “He 
is always smoking, is he not? Then I am pardoned, my 
lord, freely and fully?” 

“Out of my heart, my darling.” 

Gerald Desmond, standing unobserved in the door- way, 
saw that picture — saw him fold her in his arms and kiss 
the lips that curved so disdainfully for him. The hot 
oath he hissed was ground in his clenched teeth. 

“One swallow does not make a spring — one mistake 
does not make a failure. I have sworn to win, and I will 
win, by all that is eternal ! Embrace your betrothed, 
Roderick Desmond ; you will never embrace her as your 
wife!” 


52 


tlie Queen’s Name.” 


CHAPTER VIIL 

""in the QUEENS'S NAME/^ 

On the very outskirts of the great Clontarf estate there 
ran a wide boundary stream, swollen in the spring-tide 
rains to the width of a brawling river. It was a famous 
place for anglers, and its loneliness was often invaded by 
the disciples of the hook and line. It was very lonely, 
lying between high, rugged banks; elms and sycamores 
waving their green arms across its crystal waters, and 
only the thrush and the black-bird to whistle their songs 
in the stillness, the summer day long. The hush of a 
warm noon-tide lay over the earth as Lord Roderick Des- 
mond, in easy fishing costume,"^ lounged down the steep 
bank and flung himself on the yielding moss. He had 
come for an afternoon’s sport. The light of his exist- 
ence — the dark-eyed donna — had gone on a visit with 
Lady Sarah, and without her the old castle was dull as 
death. Gerald was busy with the earl, overlooking the 
muddled accounts of Clontarf, and, left to his own de- 
vices, Rory had sauntered here. In the pleasant days 
gone by he would have sought the cottage and g^y little 
Kathleen for company and consolation ; but that was out 
of the question for the future. 

“Poor little Kathleen,” he thought, regretfully ; ""how 
is it with her now? Oh, for the halcyon days gone by 
when we ruled the green island and had power to order 
the Sassenach dogs out into our court-yard, without leave 
of judge or jury, and hang them high as Haman ! If 
those pleasant days would but return, and I had the 
ordering of Mr. Morgan’s fate !” 

He looked gloomily down the stream, thinking how the 
mighty were fallen since those days of yore. An instant 
later and he had leaped up with a bound and an exclama- 
tion ; for there before him floated on the placid water the 
most terrible object moonlight or sunlight can shine on — 
an upturned dead face. It was the face of a woman ; he 
could see that by the floating dress and the long, bright 
hair. The features under the glimmering water he could 


“Ill tlie Queen’s Name.” 


53 

not clearly discern. He stood for one instant of time 
appalled — then, with the light leap of a young stag, he 
Avas in the water^ and holding the drowned body in his 
left arm, struck out with the right for the shore. He 
drew his lifeless burden up on the turfy bank, shook him- 
self like a dripping Tnton, and looked down upon the 
face lying so still and white on the grass. 

“Oh, God ! Kathleen !“ 

His wild cry went echoing down the desolate glen, high 
and shrill ; for there, before him, marble white, marble 
cold — -drowned — lay Kathleen O’Neal ! 

His cry was echoed. Whilst he stood above her, the 
branches had parted, and two bearded faces looked down 
upon him. With a terrible shout — more like the roar of 
a wild beast than a human cry of grief — one of the men 
leaped down upon and seized him by the throat. 

“Murderer ! caught red-handed ! You have ended your 
victim at last!” 

Rory Desmond had the strength, the sinew, the science 
of a young gladiator. Before the words were well ut- 
tered, his aggressor went down like a bullock, before one 
scientific lunge “from the shoulder.” 

“Go to the devil I Who are you ? Ah !” — with in- 
effable disdain — “Morgan, the attorney ! Have you mur- 
dered her, that you know so well where to come to look 
for the body?” 

Morgan gathered himself up, livid with rage and fear 
and fury, bleeding from a broken nose, and shook his 
fist, with a ferocious glare at the slender young aristocrat. 

“I accuse you. Lord Roderick Desmond, and your rank 
shall not save you. Mind, O’Moore, we caught him in 
the act.” 

“Of reskying the body from the fishes — yes,” said the 
town constable, bluntly. “Hould your dirty prate. Mister 
’Torney, an’ don’t be accusin’ yer betters. Oh, the purty 
darlin’l Troth, Lord Rory, it’s a thousand pities, so ’tis. 
How did you light on the body at all ?” 

“I came here to fish,” Rory answered, so lost in grief 
and amaze and horror that he scarcely knew what he had 
said,. “and saw her floating. Great Heaven! who could 
have (’one this ?” 

“Herself, maybe,” suggested O’Moore. “Faix, I’ve 
known them to do it often in the town beyant.” 


“In the Queen’s Name.” 


54 

“Kathleen commit suicide? Never. There has been 
foul murder done here^ and the murderer shall be hunted 
down, by the light above us 1” 

His fiery blue eyes flashed on Morgan. The cockney 
attorney returned the look with one of bitter hatred. 

“H*e shall ! and shall hang like a dog, were he the high- 
est in the land ! Here, O’Moore, let us prepare a hurdle 
and bear the poor girl’s body to her father’s house. She 
v/as to have been my wife in a month — only three nights 
ago she gave me her promise.” 

“Did she, now?” said O’Moore, sotto v&ce. “Then by 
this and that- 1 don’t wonder she drowned herself. Will 
you bear a hand, my lord? or maybe it’s better for you 
to run away afore us and break the news to the ould 
man. Shure, if he was twice as bad with the gamblin’, 
the divil might pity him now.” 

“I will go,” Rory said; “poor old O’Neal — yes. You 
can prepare the hurdle and convey the body without me.” 

He strode away. Morgan looked after him with eyes 
full of lurid hate and rage. 

“Curse him !” he muttered ; “curse him, the dainty- 
limbed aristocrat ! He is her betrayer and her murderer, 
and I’ll have my vengeance on him though he were the 
son of our queen, instead of a beggarly Irish earl.” 

“Arrah ! is it his prayers he’s mutterin’ there ?’.’ cried 
the constable, impatiently. “L’ave off, man, and give us 
a ban’ here wid the hurdle. Av yer givin’ yer curse to 
Lord Rory, may it come back hot and heavy on yerself, 
ye dirty English blaggard !” 

The last words were muttered in O’Moore’s throat. 
Like all the rest of his order, he had but little love for 
the beetle-browed, flinty-cheeked London pettifogger. 
Like Ishmael of old, he seemed to have been born with 
his hand against every man, and every man’s hand against 
him. They bore the body home. “Ill news flies apace.” 
Before they reached the cottage it was known throughout 
the town and the village that bonny Kathleen, the bright- 
est and prettiest of all the bright, pretty peasant girls, 
had been found cold and dead in the rapid river. And 
old O’Neal had heard, and had fallen down among them, 
with a great cry, in an epileptic fit. Gerald Desmond 
looked with a strangely startled and eager glance into his 


“In tlie Queen’s Name.’’ 55 

cousin’s face when he first heard the tale. Then he 
turned away with a long, low, inaudible whistle. 

“The dead tell no tales. Some one is the better for 
her being out of the way; and yet — poor little Kathleen !” 

The donna looked up with her great, dilated dark eyes. 
Rory turned hotly upon him. 

“What the deuce do you mean? Speak out, Gerald! 
You suspect some one.” 

“I do, my Roderigo ! It is a lawyer’s forte — suspicion. 
Excuse my speaking out just at present; I’ll wait, I think, 
until after the inquest.” 

He sauntered away, and went straight to the cottage. 
But it was full, and wild, wailing cries, unutterably blood- 
curdling, rang out in the starry twilight. The London 
barrister shrugged his shoulders. 

“The wild Irish women keening over their dead. 
Where’s Attorney Morgan ?” he asked O’Moore, the con- 
stable, keeping some sort of order among the riotous, ex- 
cited mob about the cottage. 

“Sorra one o’ me knows, Misther Gerald. He helped 
to convey the poor girleen — God be good to her ! — home ; 
and, arrah, ye divils, will ye stan’ back! Don’t ye see 
it’s full now as it can hould?”^ 

Gerald turned away. In the distance he spied Morgan 
standing gloomily alone. He went up and laid his hand 
on his arm. The man raised his sullen, bloodshot eyes to 
his face, with a questioning glare. 

“My good fellow,” Gerald Desmond said in his lightest 
tone, “you have more courage than I gave you credit for. 
But it was a rash thing to do.” 

“D — n!” Morgan cried, with a hoarse oath, shaking 
him off. “What do you mean ?” 

“Only this, you beetle-browed dog!” answered the law- 
yer, transfixing him with a vivid look : “that I was on the 
river bank this morning at ten o’clock. You did not see 
me. No; I was lying among the alders and willows — - 
you did not see me, you black-hearted cut-throat; but — ■ 
I — saw — you !” 

The face of the attorney turned in the gloaming to the 
awful, leaden, livid hue of a corpse. A terrible black- 
thorn cudgel lay at his feet; he picked it up and turned 
upon the speaker with the glare of a mad tiger. 

“Ah, bah!” Gerald Desmond said in a voice of inde- 


5,6 ‘‘In tlie Queen’s Name.” 

scribable scorn. ‘‘Drop it, you fool ! Yes, I saw you, 
and I could hang you as dead as a mackerel, if I chose. 
But I don’t choose, you cowardly cur, because there is 
some one in Clontarf I hate even more than I despise 
vou, and that is saying a good deal. Come down with 
me to the shore below — I’ve a word or two for your pri- 
vate ear. Faugh ! you hang-dog ! that villainous face of 
yours will hang you yet, in spite of you !” 

The Englishman cowered before him — the scorn of his 
bitter words, the lash of his scornful eyes — as a whipped 
liound before its master. Like a hound he followed at 
his heels down to the lonely seashore, where the washing 
waves and swinging stars alone might see or hear. 

The inquest was over. A dozen stolid jurymen had 
brought in a verdict of “Found Drowned” — a safe ver- 
dict, surely, to which no exception might be taken, except, 
perhaps, on the score of originality. And they buried 
pretty Kathleen, and the women went chanting their wild 
Irish keen over the hills to the lonely chapel-yard, and 
there was sorrow, deep and true, in many a lowly heart. 

“Found Drowned !” that was all ; but — people began to 
talk. Slowly whispers arose and circulated, and grew as 
they went, and dark looks and ominous faces turned in 
one direction. Lord Rory had been her lover — all Clon- 
tarf knew that, or thought they knew it — and — Lord 
Rory had been a villain. There were secrets that death 
alone could hide, and — death had hidden them. The fair, 
proud Spanish beauty and heiress had been jealous of the 
lost girl — no one else in the wide world could wish the 
death of bright little Kathleen. And she had not com- 
mitted suicide — every one felt assured of that. Lord 
Rory had been found beside her dead body, pale and wild. 
All that day he had been absent from the castle — whither, 
no one knew ; and from early morning Kathleen, too, had 
been gone from the cottage. The whispers rose and 
swelled, and did their work in the dark ; and at last a little 
circumstance occurred that turned the suspicions to cer- 
tainty. 

A note was found — hidden away in a little box in Kath- 
leen’s room — a note in Lord Roderick’s hand, with these 
brief words : 


The Crime of Judah. 57 

“KATHrrrN, — Meet me to-day at ten o’clock, by the 
alder-trees, on the boundary stream. Do not fail ; it is 
life or death. R.” 

On the evening of the day upon which the note was 
"found, the Earl of Clontarf entertained a few friends at 
dinner. It was nigh Christmas time now, and the wintry 
winds howled about the old castle, and the yule blaze 
leaped high in the huge chimneys. Lady Sarah pre- 
sided at her brother s table, and very fair and stately 
looked the Castilian heiress, in her black velvet robes, 
with all her rich, luxuriant hair falling adorned and un- 
bound. Rory sat beside her, very happy in the light of 
her lovely eyes, in spite of the sharp pang that smote 
his heart whenever he thought of lost Kathleen. The 
ladies had gone to the drawing-room, and he was waiting 
impatiently to follow, when a servant entered and an- 
nounced that Sheriff French wished at once to see him. 

‘‘To see me?” repeated Rory. “What the deuce can 

the sheriff of Q wish to see me for? Send him in, 

Mike.” 

The sheriff of the town entered — very pale, very grave. 

“Well, French,” Rory said, advancing to meet him, 
“nothing private, I hope? What is it?” 

“A very painful duty, my lord- — not private, I regret 
to say. Lord Roderick Desmond” — his hand fell heavily 
on the young man’s shoulder — “you are my prisoner!” 

With a simultaneous cry every man sprang to his feet. 
For Rory, he stood an instant astounded ; then, with a 
backward bound, he shook off the sheriff and sent him 
reeling. 

“Arrest the devil 1 What do you mean ?” 

“I am very sorry, my lord, but duty must be done. 
Here is my warrant. I arrest you in the queen’s name 
for the willful murder of Kathleen O’Neal!” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THi: CRIME OR JUDAH. 

A tempestuous April night — a wild and dangerous 
night down there on the Wicklow coast. A howling 
wind raged, sheets of rain swept over the sea, and the 


58 The Crime of Judah. 

lightning leaped out in fiery flashes. A terrible night 
when not even a houseless dog was abroad in the deserted 
streets of the town. 

“Shure, it’s God’s anger on thim that swore his life 
away this day,” muttered more than one awe-struck peas- 
ant, cowering before the blue leap of the lightning, the 
deafening crash of the thunder. “He’s as innocent as 
the babe unborn. Lord Rory wouldn’t hurt a fly; an’ 
sure I’ve known him ever since he was a wee yaller- 
haired, laughin’ gossoon, no higher than that. And now 
they say they’ll hang him. Oh, wirra, wirra ! Sweet bad 
luck this night and for evermore to that perjured divil 
Morgan, the ’torney, I pray.” 

He sat alone, he upon whose head hundreds of curses, 
heavy and hot, had fallen to-day. He sat alone in the 
dreary little parlor of his house, listening to the tremen- 
dous uproar of wind and air and sea. His one servant 
had long ago gone to rest; the clock upon the mantel 
pointed to half-past twelve. The stormy April night 
was cold and the room was chill. Perhaps that was why 
Morgan’s teeth chattered in his head, and his face looked 
ghastly blue and pinched in the dull light of the tallow 
candle. The fire had smoldered itself out to black ashes, 
and the dull, unsnuffed candle guttered and flared in in- 
numerable draughts. He sat in a leathern arm-chair be- 
side the table, his elbows resting on hil knees, his red- 
stubbled chin betv^en his horny palms, his sunken, blood- 
shot eyes glaring with awful vacancy at the blackening 
embers. A bottle of brandy and a tumbler stood at his 
elbow. Pie had been drinking heavily, but there was that 
within him that rendered the fiery liquid impotent as 
water. He had crouched there in that position for hours, 
his only movement when he filled his glass with brandy 
and drained it, or lifted his hollow, haggard eyes to the 
clock. He cowered there listening to the storm beating 
like a human thing in rage and pain at the closed windows 
and doors. 

“Is there a God?” Morgan thought, a cold dew stand- 
ing on his pallid face ; “and is it His angry voice I hear 
in the storm to-night? Is there a hell, and is there a 
pit in all its horrors deep enough for me?” 

A paper lay at his feet; he picked it up and glanced 
with a strange fascination at one particular heading : 


The Crime of Judah. 59 

“Conclusion of the Trial of Lord Roderick Desmond 
for the Murder of Kathleen O’Neal — The Evidence — The 
Verdict — The Sentence.” 

The letters swam in a blood-red mist before his eyes. 
Here and there he missed a word, a line, a whole para- 
graph. The paper contained but a brief summary of the 
trial. His eyes went mechanically over the familiar lines. 

“Perhaps,” said the paper, “within the memory of man 
our town has never been so convulsed with astonishment 
and horror as it has been by the late murder and subse- 
quent arrest. The deceased, Kathleen O’Neal, was so 
well known, so universally beloved, so fair, so young, so 
full of promise, that her sad, untimely end has sent a 
thrill of grief and dismay to the coldest heart. The sam« 
may be said of the prisoner. High-born, beloved by all 
who knew him, the gentlest of human creatures, it seemed 
at first absolutely impossible to connect his name with 
that of murder. And yet he has been found guilty. 
* * * He entered the crowded court-room to-day 
with his usual dauntless, haughty manner. He has 
grown extremely pale and thin, but his eagle eye glanced 
over the crowd with all the pride and fire of his proud 
and fiery race. ‘Not guilty !’ he responded in a voice that 
rang clear and high ; and from the time he took his seat 
within the dock until the time he was led away, his face 
never betrayed one trace of any emotiorr whatever. Even 
Avhen the verdict was returned, not a muscle moved ; even 
when he stood up and listened to the solemn sentence of 
death, the marble-like rigidity of his face never altered. 
He bowed to the judge at its conclusion with the calm, 
courtly grace of a prince, the sole unmoved person in the 
whole assemblage. 

“Onfy once did he betray any emotion — when the Lady 
Inez d’Alvarez fell fainting from her seat — and even then 
it was but momentary. As he was being led back to 
prison he turned to his friend. Sir Owen Fitzgerald, and 
held out his hand. 

“ ‘Can you take it ?’ he said, with a smile. ‘It is the 
hand of a convicted felon. The Desmonds have gone to 
death with “All is lost except honor” on their lips. With 
me, all is lost, even honor. Farewell, Owen. Don’t 
come to see me ; only remember — some day you will know 
I was innocent!’ 


6o 


The Crime of Judah. 

“The evidence was purely circumstantial, but very 
crushing — especially that of William Morgan. We give 
a brief synopsis. 

“Testimony of William Morgan : 

“ T am an Englishman by birth, an attorney by pro- 
fession, and a resident, by choice, of this town for the 
past five years. I knew the deceased well ; she was my 
betrothed wife. We were to have been married in a 
month, with the consent and approval of her father. I 
loved her very dearly, but I have every reason to be- 
lieve she did not love me. Lord Roderick Desmond was 
.long her lover — a fact well known — and I have it from 
her own lips that he more than once promised her mar- 
riage. But from his first meeting with the Lady Inez 
d ’Alvarez he neglected Kathleen. I pressed my suit — 
she rejected it, and failed away^o a shadow. Then came 
the news of the engagement of Lord Roderick and the 
I,ady Inez. It was I who told her, and she fell back- 
ward — not fainting, but very near it — in her seat. Then 
Siie started wdldly up. 

“ ‘ “He will not ! he dare not !” she cried ; “he could 
not be so base a villain! I am to be his wife — he has 
sworn it — and — oh, wLat will become of me if he fails to 
keep his word?’' 

“ T pacified her as well as I could, but she broke from 
me and ran away in an hysterical state to her room. I 
did not see her again for some days ; she shunned me per- 
sistently. One evening, a little before dusk, strolling 
among the hills, I came near the spot called the Fairy 
W ell. There I espied the prisoner and the deceased, con- 
versing very earnestly. She seemed to be weeping — to 
be pleading passionately — he soothing and reasoning with 
her. I heard nothing they said ; I w^as angry and jealous, 
and quitted the place. About an hour after, as I stood 
alone near the cottage of O’Neal, Kathleen came rapidly 
along. Her face was pale, her eyes red — she seemed to 
have been weeping. I called her, and she stopped. I 
asked her what Lord Roderick had said to her, and she 
answered me, “I would never know.” I told her I loved 
her, and that I would endure this suspense no longer. 
She must either say yes or no, now and forever ; she said 
yes, without an instant’s hesitation. Her w^ords were, “I 
will marry you whenever you like.” 


6i 


The Crime of Judah. 

“ ‘Then she left me and entered the cottage. I did not 
follow her that night ; I came over next day and all was 
arranged. We were to be married in a month. She Con- 
sented to everything I proposed, but she said little; she 
looked very gloomy indeed. Business kept me so occu- 
pied during the next two days that I found no leisure to 
visit her. Early on the morning of the third day I started 
for the cottage, my way leading past the boundary stream. 
It is a solitary spot, so that I was rather surprised when 
I heard voices on the opposite bank. I looked across, and 
saw among the alders the figure of a man and a woman. 
I recognized the voice of Kathleen, raised high and shrill 
at times — again broken and low. The words I could not 
catch. The man’s face was hidden, but I felt positive 
it was Lord Roderick. I could not cross the stream con- 
veniently to confront them ; besides, I knew what a fiery, 
reckless temper Lord Roderick’s was at times. I passed 
on my way, very ill pleased, determined to await Kath- 
leen at the cottage and demand an explanation. I found 
O’Neal in, and alone — did not know where his daughter 
was — said she had been gone over an hour. I waited, 
but she never returned. As noon drew near I started up, 
determined to go in search of her. On my way I met 
O’Moore the constable, and asked him to accompany me. 
I had a presentiment of some evil, I think. We went to 
the spot where I had seen them together, but they were 
not there. Ji^st then we heard a sort of cry or groan fur- 
ther down ; we dashed through the trees, and the first 
sight we saw was the prisoner bending over the body of 
the deceased. She was quite dead. He looked confound- 
ed — stunned ; I cannot describe his look. I taxed him 
with the murder at once, and his answer was to knock 
me down. O’Moore asked him to go to the cottage and 
apprise her father, whilst we bore the body home.’ 

“O’Moore was called, and corroborated the testimony 
of the last witness. Being questioned as to why he had 
not told this at the inquest, Morgan said he could not 
swear positively that the man he saw talking to her was 
Lord Roderick Desmond ; he was only morally certain 
until the discovery of his note, appointing the meeting, 
placed the matter beyond doubt. 

“Testimony of Hugh O’Neal : 

“ ‘Deceased was my daughter. Lord Roderick Des- 


62 


The Crime of. Judah. 

fnond and she had been playmates from earliest child- 
hood — lovers, I do believe, in later years. I know my 
daughter loved him, and I know that until the arrival of 
Lady Inez he spent nearly half of his time at my place. 
Then he left off coming, and very soon we heard he was 
engaged to be married to the Spanish lady. My daughter 
took the news very much to heart ; she would not listen 
to the proposals of Mr. Morgan, who wished to make her 
his wife. On the day of her death, she left the house 
about nine o’clock in the morning, saying she was going 
for a walk. I never saw her again until I saw her carried 
in dead. Morgan came about half-past ten or eleven and 
asked for her, waited awhile, and then left, saying he 
would go in search of her. Lord Roderick came about 
two o’clock, looking very pale and excited, and told me 
he had found Kathleen drowned — her body floating in 
the boundary stream. Morgan and O’Moore carried her 
home. Three weeks after the inquest, rummaging about 
among her things, I found a note hidden away in her 
room, in the writing of the prisoner, appointing a meet- 
ing at the boundary stream at ten o’clock. I can swear 
to the prisoner’s handwriting — it was I who taught him 
to write. I am firmly convinced it was to that appoint- 
ment she went, and met her death. She was incapable 
of committing suicide.’ 

“Testimony of Gerald Desmond: 

“ ‘My cousin Roderick and I parted early, on the morn- 
ing of the i8th of November. He said he was going 
fishing, and I was occupied nearly all day with my uncle, 
the Earl of Clontarf, looking over accounts, in his study. 
The prisoner quitted the castle about half-past nine. It 
would take him fully half an hour to reach the boundary 
stream. I saw him next late in the afternoon. He came 
home looking pale and wild, and told us he had discovered 
the dead body of Kathleen O’Neal in the boundary 
stream, whither he had gone to fish. He seemed very 
agitated, very excited, but I thought that natural ; he and 
Kathleen had been old friends — lovers, perhaps, in a boy- 
and-girl way, in the past. The deceased loved him pas- 
sionately, I know. I also know she was intensely jealous, 
and once, in my hearing, threatened to go up to the castle 
and compel the Lady Inez to resign all right to her lover. 

“ ‘ “He was mine before he was hers !” were her words. 


The Crime of Judah. 63 

“He shall never marry her ! I could break ol¥ the match 
to-morrow if I liked !” 

“ ‘I thought the words but the empty threats of excite- 
ment at the time and paid no attention to them. I do re- 
member half-laughingly putting Rory on his guard, and 
he looked more seriously uneasy than I had thought it 
possible for him to look on such a matter. Lady Inez 
was very proud — a whisper of infidelity and she would 
have broken with him at once. The witness knew his 
cousin’s handwriting. Yes — this note was his — he could 
swear to it.’ 

“As Mr. Gerald Desmond descended from the witness 
stand,” said the paper, “the prisoner luuked ac him with a 
long, steady, reproachful gaze. 

“ ‘And thou, Brutus !’^ he said ; but Mr. Desmond 
seemed very much affected and shrank from that fixed 
look. He had given his evidence with the utmost reluc- 
tance throughout. 

“The jury were gone some hours. The verdict was 
‘Guilty.’ 

“When asked if he had any reason to show why sen- 
tence of death should not be pronounced upon him, the 
prisoner answered, very pale but very firmly: 

“ ‘Only this, my lord — that I am innocent, and will die 
condemned on circumstantial evidence, as many an inno- 
cent man has done before me. That note is an arrant 
forgery. I never saw Kathleen O’Neal on that day, nor 
expected to see her, until I beheld her floating in the 
stream. I accuse Morgan, the attorney, of gross perjury. 
He never heard or saw me talking to her on that day. 
She has been foully murdered, and may the great God 
above confound her murderers and avenge her cruel 
death. For me — I loved Kathleen as a sister — I would 
have died sooner than harm a hair of her head.’ 

“The judge arose and solemnly pronounced the sen- 
tence of death. On the 3d of May the prisoner will be 
hanged in front :of Clontarf jail. The deepest sympathy 
is felt everywhere for his noble father and the lovely lady 
so soon to have been his bride. The prisoner was uni- 
versally beloved. Strong men wept like children when 
he was borne away. The murder, the trial, and the im- 
pending doom have thrown a deep gloom over the whole 
community.” 


64 The Crime of Judah. 

The paper dropped from the reader’s hand*. He bowed 
his face in his hands with a hollow groan. 

“Will I ever forget his face?” he said, huskily. “The 
look in his eyes as he turned them upon me last, will 
haunt me to my dying day. And she — that last, upward 
look as she fell backward into the river ! Oh, God ! it will 
drive me mad !” 

The clock struck one. Before its one faint chime died 
away there came a low, cautious knock at the house door. 
Morgan started to his feet. 

“ ’Tis he!” he muttered. “I had forgotten him. Ah, 
among all the devils in the regions infernal is there an- 
other half so deeply damned as he — this second Iscariot 
— betraying with a kiss?” 

The knock was repeated. The Englishman arose, the 
candle in his shaking hand, and walked to the door. As 
he unlocked and threw it open a man, muffled in a great- 
coat and slouched hat, came in, dripping like a water- 
dog. 

“At last, my man ! I give you my word I thought you 
liad fallen asleep. A sound digestion and an easy con- 
science always insure speedy slumber. Beastly night it 
is, but all the better for me. Come in out of this draughty 
passage, and let’s sit comfortably down.” 

He jerked the flaring dip out of the hand of the pallid 
attorney, and led the way, with long strides, into the 
cheerless room. He unbuttoned and flung back his great- 
coat, threw his slouched hat aside, and stood revealed in 
the dull glow — Gerald Desmond. 

“Your reception-room looks, like yourself, my dear 
friend — dull as the. devil! Still, it’s better than the con- 
demned cell in Clontarf jail, with the gallows and the 
hangman in prospective. Ah, my beauteous, brilliant 
Lord Rory, how is it with you now?” 

He lay back in his chair, his legs, cased in waterproof 
top-boots, outstretched ; his sallow face flushed ; his light- 
blue eyes gleaming with the cold light of sapphire stones. 

“Sit thee down, my Guillaume, and never look so pale ! 
You’d do for the Ghost in ‘Hamlet,’ without any pearl 
powder, only you’re too hang-dog looking for any honest 
ghost. Sit down and don’t look so like the first murderer 
in a tragedy, if you can help it.” 

“I can’t help it !” Morgan cried, with a bitter groan ; “I 


65 


The Crime of Judah. 

feel as though I were going mad ! Listen to that storm, 
Gerald Desmond ! look at that lightning ! Is it not the 
wrath of heaven on us for the double murder done?” 

“My good fellow, speak for yourself. Fve done no 
murder — never mean to, if I can help it. A clever villain 
— and I pride myself on being at the top of the profes- 
sion — never breaks laws. Now, I don’t say that you are 
an artful scoundrel enough, in the main, but there is so 
much of the bloodhound and bull-dog in you by nature 
that it will break out in spite of you. When you pitched 
your little Kathleen neck and. crop into the ” 

“For Cod's sake, hush !” Morgan cried in a voice of 
agony, starting to his feet. “Walls have ears ! Hush, 
hush, hush \” 

“It was a weakness on your part I should never have 
judgedtyou capable of. I’m compounding with a felony 
in concealing it, I don’t deny; but, then, it’s an ill wind 
that blows nobody good. I’ve saved your bull-dog neck 
from the gallows, my worthy Mr. Morgan, and fixed the 
crime on another man. You ought to be immeasurably 
grateful to me, instead of glovrering at me over the can- 
dle like Faust at Mephistopheles.” 

He lit a cigar as he spoke and sent a puff of smoke 
across into the face of his companion. That trodden 
worm looked gloomily at him. 

“You are a deeper-dyed villain than I am, Gerald Des- 
mond !” he said ; “and as deeply dyed a murderer as I 
am — for you have made me swear an innocent man’s life 
away. He was your friend — your benefactor — your kins- 
man. How will you answer to God and man for this 
day’s work?’’ 

“The question of the Covenanter’s widow,” Gerald Des- 
mond responded, airily. “Well, I say as Claverhouse 
said : T can answer it to a man well enough, and I will 
take the Deity in my own hand.’ Ah ! I always admired 
Claverhouse ! But you in the character of a censor — my 
cut-throat friend ! Who’d have thought it ? As to my 
friend, my benefactor, my kinsman, etc., I hate him sim- 
ply because he is all these. Why was I not born to the 
purple, instead of he? I’m the cleverer man, far and 
away, of the two. And he is all that stands between me 
and the coronet of Clontarf. Is that not enough ? When 
I was a wretched little hanger-on — a fatherless and moth- 


66 


The Crime of Judah. 

erless well-born pauper — he was riding about the country 
like a prince, adored by high and low even then, while I 
held his stirrup-leather, and picked out of the mud the 
guineas he threw to me. Is that not enough ? And to- 
day I love the woman he loves, and she flouts me, by 
Jove! almost as dead-and-gone Kathleeh flouted you. Is 
that not enough? He was rich, and handsome, and be- 
loved, and my benefactor. I was poor and plain, and be- 
loved by nobody, and the hanger-on of my lord, the king’s 
bounty. Was that not enough? But I won’t do as you 
have done, my foolish Morgan — drown the woman I wor- 
ship. I mean to do better — make her marry me. And 
I shall have her, and her fortune, and the coronet of Clon- 
tarf, when Lord Rory’s bones are bleached, and all that 
bright beauty she loves so dearly is — dust and ashes !” 

The words hissed out of his lips in the cloud of smoke. 
He had never taken the cigar from between his lips, and 
his steel-blue eyes gleamed with a fire bad to see. 

“You are a devil incarnate!” Morgan said, “and -you- 
have made a devil of me. Give me what you came here 
to give me, and let us part.” 

“So! I make a devil of you, do I?” Gerald Desmond 
laughed good-naturedly. “You were but one remove 
from an angel before. Poor little Kathleen ! I didn’t 
tell you to drown her, did I ? — a very foolish- ” 

Morgan leaped from his chair, and made a clutch at-' 
his tormentor’s throat. 

“By G — ! I’ll strangle you where you sit ! Take care, 
Gerald Desmond ! It’s not safe, I warn you — it’s not 
safe !” 

“So I see, you overgrown bully!” He thrust his hand 
within his breast-pocket and pulled out a pistol. “Bah ! 
you fool, go back to your seat, and cease ranting. How 
soon do you propose to quit Ireland?” 

“Within the week,” sullenly. 

“That is well ; and don’t remain in England — the air 
of Great Britain is unwholesome for such as you. Cut 
to the colonies — Australia, Canada, Cape Coast — any- 
where, anywhere out of the world. Or stay! Suppose 
you try Columbia, the gem of the ocean? Suppose you 
make for New York?” 

“Give me money,” Morgan said, with a wolfish glare; 
“I’ll go anywhere.” 


The Crime of Judah, 67 

‘ Go to New York. Fine city — lots of rascality— splen- 
did openings for a man of your genius. Or California 
wouldn’t be a bad idea — it’s a sort of reftigium peccato- 
rium nowadays. Try the New World, my dear fellow, 
and here’s two hundred pounds to start you in life.” 

“Two hundred pounds! You said two thousand!” 

“Did I, really? Well, I could as easily give you ten 
midnight moons. Don’t be ungrateful, my William ; I’ve 
saved your precious neck from Jack Ketch — that’s worth 
the balance. Take the two hundred and my blessing. It’s 
all you’ll ever get.” 

He arose as he spoke, threw away his s^oked-out cigar, 
and buttoned himself up in his overcoat once more. 

“Wild weather to face at two in the morning. No 
matter — virtue is its own reward. Farewell, my friend. 
A pleasant passage to New York.” 

“And this is all you mean to give me?” 

“All — every stiver, my friend — and a very pretty sum 
it is. Many a millionaire has commenced on an eighth of 
the money. Not a word more, you black-a-vised mur- 
derer ! I won’t have it. Show me to the door, and take 
your villainous face out of the country within the next 
three days, or I’ll be down on you with the same mercy 
you showed Kathleen O’Neal. That will do — a word to 
the wise — you understand? Good-night!” 

He disappeared in the stormy darkness. The man 
Morgan closed and locked the door behind him, and stood 
in the passage, shaking his fist impotently, his murderous 
eyes gleaming like live coals. 

“And this is the way you keep your word, Mr. Gerald 
Desmond?” he said. “You’ve used your tool, and now 
you fling it into the ditch to rot! It’s your time now — 
every dog has his day — but mine will surely come. And 
when it comes, look out! When you’re at the height of 
your power and prosperity, I’ll have my vengeance and 
drag you down, though I perish with you ! I’ll pay you 
oflF, sooner or later, with compound interest, you traitor — 
you Judas, who sold your friend!” 


68 


The Crime of Cain. 


CHAPTER X. 
the: crime of CAIN. 

He sat alone in his cell — the condemned cell of the 
Clontarf jail. The mellow April day — the last of the 
month — had long ago faded, and the “young May moon,’’ 
of which the sweetest of all poets sings, gleamed through 
the bars of th? grated window into the desolate cell. 
There was no other light — his lamp had gone out — but 
the soft, silvery radiance fell upon his bright golden head 
like heaven’s own benediction. 

It was past midnight. The new May and the new 
month had dawned. May-day had come, and on the third 
day of May they would lead him forth to die a felon's 
death on the scaffold. 

He walked slowly up and down the narrow cell, very 
pale, and thin, and worn, but the bright beauty, that had 
been Nature’s birthday gift to her darling, undimmed. 
No suffering, no shame, no anguish, could stamp out that 
glorious dower. A deep sadness lay on that pale face — 
otherwise it was perfectly calm. 

“And it all ends here,” he thought, wearily — “love, am- 
bition, the world and its glories — in the solemn wonder 
of the winding-sheet. Sic transit! If it were only my- 
self — but my father, my proud, beautiful Inez — oh, piti- 
ful God ! the thought of them will make me die a cow- 
ard !” 

He had seen them for the last time that day; he had 
begged them to come no more. 

“I am not the first of my name and race that has died 
on the scaffold for another’s crime,” he said, as he wrung 
his father’s hand. “Leave me to myself for the three 
days yet to come. Let me die as they died — game 1” 

He had held Inez d’Alvarez in his arms — for the last 
time on earth — in a long, long, passionate embrace; he 
had kissed, over and over again, the clay-cold lips ; he had 
looked his last into the wondrous dark eyes, filled with 
woman’s wildest woe. He had taken his last embrace, 
his last look ; he had seen her fall back, cold and lifeless, 


Tlie Crime of Cain. 


69 

into the pitying arms of the jailer, and never again, 
though he suffered a thousand deaths, could he suffer as 
he did in that hour. 

But the sharpness even of that pang had passed. Death 
was so very near — a cruel and shameful death — and, seen 
in its light, earth, its joys and its sorrows, faded dimly 
away, and a great calm fell. It is easy, after all, to face 
the inevitable; hope is at an end — there is no alterna- 
tive — we sit down resigned. 

His thoughts drifted away to Kathleen. The mystery 
that shrouded her fate had been the great trouble of his 
life during those dreary months gone by. Who was 
Kathleen’s murderer? 

“She never committed suicide,” he thought, “my brave, 
good little girl ! She has been foully murdered, and lies 
in her grave unavenged ! Oh, that I were free to seek 
her murderer over the world !” 

His hand clenched, and his eyes flashed with all their 
old fire. The bitterest remorse he had ever felt in his 
life he had felt for lost Kathleen. She had loved him so 
dearly — she had given him up so bravely, so generously — 
she had sacrificed herself so nobly for her ruined father’s 
sake. And this was the reward of her womanly martyr- 
dom ! 

“Better this, poor child,” Rory thought, bitterly, “than 
the living death in store for her as the wife of that brute, 
Morgan ! She has gone back to heaven untainted ; as his 
wife, her life would have been hell on earth !” 

He threw himself on his bed presently — not to sleep — 
to watch the rays of silvery light stream through the iron 
bars. What tales it whispered — cruel tales— of the bold 
Wicklow Mountains, all flooded with its crystal gleam — 
of the waving heather — of the fetterless eagle, soaring up 
to meet the rising sun — of the purple midnight sea, sleep- 
ing under the purple, starry sky — of his daring “Nora 
Creina,” dancing like a thing of life on the boundless 
waves — of hoary old Clontarf, where the Desmonds had 
reigned time out of mind, and where every moss-grown 
stone and ivied turret were dear to him as living things. 

“And Gerald will reign there now,” he thought, 
drearily, “Gerald will be Earl of Clontarf when they lay 
my poor father beneath the old chancel. And he will re- 
trieve the ruined fortunes of the Desmonds by a wealthy 


The Crime of Cain. 


70 

marriage with some English tradesman’s daughter, I dare 
say. Ah, well, the world’s a see-saw at best, and it’s only 
in the nature of things that one should go up as the other 
comes down.” 

Slumber stole gradually over his eyes. He laid his 
handsome golden head on his arm, and slept calmly as 
a child on its mother’s breast. So deep was that quiet 
sleep that the stealthy step without never reached him — 
the stealthy turning of a key in the huge lock of his door 
never disturbed him. Slowly and softly it swung out- 
ward — slowly and softly a man glided into the moonlit 
cell. One glance, and he saw the quiet sleeper on the 
straw bed. 

“And they would murder him !” the man said, between 
his clenched teeth ; “they call him a murderer ! They 
would hang this fair-haired boy for the murder of the 
girl who loved him ! Blind fools ! They’ll never harm 
a hair of his yellow head, by the great heaven above us ! 
Lord Rory, Lord Rory, awake !” 

He bent above the sleeper, and whispered the name in 
his ear. At the first sound the sleeping eyes opened and 
looked up — wide awake. 

“What is it? Who is it? What do you want?” 

“Hush-sh-sh ! for the love of God ! I have come to 
save you, Lord Roderick Desmond !” 

“To save me !” 

He sat up in bed, bewildered. 

“Yes, to save you. I only reached Wicklow yesterday, 
or y-ou would not have been in prison all these months. 
May Old Nick fly away with the cowards who called 
themselves your friends, and left you to die here !” 

“But who are you?” Rory*cried in breathless wonder 
and bewilderment. 

“Ah, then, surely you haven’t forgotten me entirely. 
Lord Rory ? Mike Muldoon, that ran away four years 
ago, and went to sea. Sure you saved my life, at the risk 
of your own, many a day ago, up in the mountains beyant. 
I’ve a good memory, my lord, and I haven’t forgot it, 
though I am a ne’er-do-well : and I’m here to-night to pay 
off my debt. Get up. my lord — get up; throw this big 
coat about you, pull this old cauheen over your face, and 
come along.” ' . 


The Crime of Cain. 


71 

“Come along!*' Where? how? in heaven’s name, Mike, 
what do yon mean? There is no chance of escape.” 

“There is every chance !” Mike Muldoon cried in a 
breathless whisper. “The jailer is my uncle, as- you 
know ; he hasn’t seen me for four years until to-day. And 
he wouldn’t have seen me to-day, only they told me over 
in the town — oh, wirra 1 — that they had you here hard 
and fast. Lord Rory, I swore by all that’s good and 
great that minute that I’d free you, or know the reason 
why. I came to my uncle, and sure he was as glad to 
see me as if I was the prodigal son Father Lafferty 
preaches about; and didn’t I ask him to make a little 
feast in honor of the occasion, and invite the whole ship’s 
crew? And faith he did it like a lady, and, I just quietly 
drugged the punch, and every man- jack of them is sleep- 
in’ like the divil ! I tuk the kays from my uncle’s belt, 
and — Och, Lord Rory ! don’t kape me standin’ here palav- 
erin’, but come at once.” 

He flung the coat around him, slapped the hat over his 
eyes, and fairly dragged the prioner out of his cell. 

“But where, Mike — where are we going?” 

“I’ve a boat in waitin’ down there at Peggy’s Point, and 
my ship, the ‘Dancin’ Dervish,’ sails in three hours. She’s 
lyin’ at anchor in the harbor now; and as three of our 
men deserted last night, they’ll take you, and no ques- 
tions asked. And sure, when you’re safe in foreign parts, 

you can write home and . Will ye hurry. Lord Rory, 

or do ye mane to stand here till the dirty pack o’ beagles 
wake and give chase ? Come on I” 

Stunned, bewildered, dazed, like a man in a dream. 
Lord Roderick suflfered himself to be fairly dragged 
along. Still in that dream, he passed through long cor- 
ridors, through an open court-yard where officials slept 
on their posts) through the prison gates, and out into the 
gray, starry morning — free! . 

Then he awoke. He turned to the brave fellow beside 
him and held out his hand. 

“Mike, my glorious fellow, how can I thank you?” 

“By runnin’ as if the divil was after ye. Maybe they’re 
wakin’ this minute and raisin’ the . alarm. Never mind 
thanks, Lord Rory, till we’re out o’ sight o’ the coast o’ 
Ireland.” 

“Mike, they must know at home. My father — Lady 


The Crime of Cain. 


72 

Inez — I must find means of letting them know. The sus- 
pense, the mystery of my fate, will kill them. Oh, Mike, 
my man, my brain feels half dazed with the suddenness 
of all. this. Think for me, act for me; tell me how I am 
to let them know.’’ 

They were speeding rapidly along toward the coast. 
At that hour no living thing was abroad. Mike took off 
his cap and scratched his head in dense perplexity. 

“Sure, it’s like puttin’ yer head back in the lions’ den 
to wait at all ; but still — arrah ! write a bit of a note, and 
ril run up to the castle with it myself. Maybe the duck 
of the Desmonds,’ that’s stood your friend so far, will see 
you through it ; and many’s the good turn I owe the ould 
lord. Come down to the shore. Lord Rory, and write 
your note. I’ll fly up to the castle and back in a brace 
of shakes.” 

As men hurry when life is at stake, they hurried to the 
safe shelter of the shore. The coast-guard, going his 
lonely rounds, had to be avoided ; but Peggy’s Point — a 
high, wild, lonely projection, thirty feet above the sands, 
with the waves churning on the black rocks below — was 
safe even from him. 

Rory had a pencil in his pocket, and a New Testament. 
He took out the book and scrawled rapidly on the fly- 
leaf : 

“I have escaped ; I am safe. Before I am missed I 
will be out of the country. Until you hear from me 
again, farewell. 

^ That was all. He folded it and gave it to the sailor. 

“Deliver it to my father, to Lady Inez, or my cousin 
Gerald, but to no one else. I will await your return here, 
Mike, and may God speed you !” 

The man darted off like a deer, and Lord Roderick 
Desmond, the condemned prisoner whose hours had been 
numbered, stood under the gray morning sky, fetterless 
and free once more. Once more the stirring sea-wind 
thrilled through every vein like the elixir 'of life; once 
more he looked over the ceaseless sea ; once more he saw 
the unspeakable glory of the new day-dawn in the rosy 
cast. He leaned against the tall, mossy bowlder and 
drew a long, deep breath. 

“Free!” he thought. “Thank God! thank God for 
man’s best birthright ! They will never take me back to 


The Crime of Cain, 73 

captivity again — never, though all the constabulary of 
Clontarf stood before me!” 

And meantime, fleet as an arrow from a bow, bounded 
along Mike Muldoon to Clontarf Castle. The distance 
was nearly two miles ; but two miles was as a “hen’s 
jump” to the swift-footed mountaineer. Day was dawn- 
ing in the ruddy eastern sky, the breeze was freshening, 
and Mike knew that before the sun was an hour high the 
“Dancing Dervish” would be flying from the Wicklow 
coast, with her white wings spread. 

“And if I’m late — oh, whillilu !” thought Mike. 
“They’ll be all in bed at the castle whin I get there, I 
know. Sure, the quality’s always lazy.” 

“Halloo!” cried an astonished voice. “Now, then, my 
man, mind where you’re going!” 

But the alarmed warning came too late; there was a 
collision ; Mike had run head foremost into a pedestrian 
walking briskly down the rugged path. There was a 
shock of the most violent, a rebound, and a mutually fero- 
cious glare. 

“Confound you, you thick-headed bog-trotter! What 
do you mean?” 

But Mike Muldoon, by way of an answer, flung up his 
cap and caught it, with an exultant shout. 

“Hurroo! tare an’ ages! here’s the luck of the Des- 
monds! Long life to ye, Misther Gerald! Sure, I’d 
rather see your own good-lookin’ face this minute than 
be made a present of ould Ireland !” 

“What the deuce !” exclaimed Gerald Desmond, with a 
scowl ; for Gerald Desmond it was, always the earliest of 
early birds. “I have seen you before, my good fellow, 
somewhere. Was it in a mad-house?” 

“God forbid!” retorted Mike in unfeigned horror. 
“Maybe ye remimber Mike Muldoon, that thrashed ye 
within an inch av yer life, long ago, for shootin’ his ter- 
rier ? Divil a dirtier trick ever I heard tell of. Sure, it’s 
my own four bones, Misther Gerald, darlin’, from foreign 
parts beyant, wid a note for ye from him, ye know.” 

This last in a thrilling whisper, with his hand to his 
mouth, and Lis mouth close to Gei;ald’s ear. 

“From whom? I’ll be hanged if I understand one word 
'you’re saying!” 

“Arrah! read this,” said Mike, thrusting the note into 


The Crime of Cain. 


74 

his hand. ‘‘Didn’t I come to Clontarf to free Dord Rory, 
and didn’t I do it, too! My curse and the curse o’ the 
crows on them that put him where I found him I He’s 
waitin’ down at Peggy’s Point; an’, Misther Gerald, av 
ye’ll run down an’ spake a word to him while Pm fetchin’ 
the boat round, you’ll be doin’ a good turn.” 

“But wait, Mike — for heaven’s sake, wait!” cried Ger- 
ald, breathlessly. “Do you mean to tell me Rory has 
broken jail and made his escape?” 

“Begorra, he has, an’ is coolin’ his shins at Peggy’s 
Point this minute.” 

“You helped to free him?” 

“Faith, I did that, an’ more shame to me av I didn’t.” 

“And what are you going to do with him ? What boat 
do you speak of?” 

“The cutter of the ‘Dancin’ Dervish,’ no less ; it’s up 
yonder a mile or more. And the ‘Dancin’ Dervish — more 
betoken I’m second mate of the same — sails for Mel- 
bourne within the next two hours, and Lord Rory’s off in 
her, and can snap his fingers in the dirty faces of all the 

hangmen this side of . Hurroo ! I’m off for the boat, 

Misther Gerald. Run down to Peggy’s Point, and tell 
Lord Rory I’ll be with him in twenty minutes.” 

He was gone like a shot. And Gerald Desmond stood 
alone in the day-dawn, and knew that all his labor was 
vain — all his plotting and villainy were useless — knew 
that the cousin he hated was free! 

He set his teeth like a bull-dog, and an awful oath 
rang down the solemn stillness. His face, in the gray 
light, had turned livid and terrible, and his strong right 
hand clenched. 

“Baffled !” he crushed the word between his fierce teeth. 
“Never ! by the light above us ! though I slay him with my 
own hand !” 

He started at a swinging pace, his hand closing on the 
cold barrel of a pistol hidden in his breast. There was 
that in the steel-blue eyes, in the compression of his 
mouth, bad to see. 

Roderick Desmond^ leaning against the bowlder, look- 
ing at the crimson glory deepening in the east, awoke 
from his reverie at the soUjnd of rapidly approaching foot- 
steps. It was not the tread of Mike Muldoon — he knew 


The Crime of Cain. 


75 

that — and he sprang erect, and stood with the look in eyes 
of a hunted stag at bay. 

“They shall never take me alive!’' he thought. 

The next instant he had sprung forward, with a word- 
less cry of delight, and grasped his kinsman’s hand. 

“Gerald!” he cried, “who would have looked for such 
good fortune as this?” 

“Ah! who, indeed?” Gerald answered, with a bitter 
sneer. “The proverbial luck of the Desmonds has not 
deserted the last son of the house, I see. And so. Lord 
Rory, you have escaped Jack Ketch?” 

“Gerald !” 

Only that one word. But he dropped the hand he had 
taken, and recoiled, and stood blankly staring. There was 
that in the tone, that in the words, that in the devilish 
smile of the man before him, no one could see and doubt. 

Gerald Desmond laughed aloud — a hard, bitter, sar- 
donic laugh. Hjs falcon eye had measured the narrow 
margin on whicli they stood, and the black, boiling gulf 
yawning deadly below. He folded his arms, and looked 
with that diabolical sneer full in the pale, startled face of 
the kinsman he hated. 

“My brilliant Rory ! my beauteous Rory ! how is it 
with you now? A condemned felon — a fugitive from 
justice — a hunted murderer! Why, your worst enemy 
might afford to pity you to-day ! Do you hear, my kingly 
cousin ! To pity you, as — I do !” 

“Gerald!” he could just utter that one word, so intense 
was the shock, the wonder, the incredulity. “What is 
this ? Is it you or I that is going mad ?” 

“Neither, my princely Rory ; it is only that you are 
learning the truth at the eleventh hour ; that I hate you !” 

“Hate me? You, Gerald — my friend — my kinsman — 
my brother!” 

He paused, but tjie steadfast blue eyes that looked at 
him with such unutterable reproach stung to madness the 
last remnant of hpnor in the traitor’s breast. 

“Curse you !” he hissed, “with your woman’s face and 
your golden hair ! What right had you to be born Lord 
of Clontarf instead of me? The same blood flows in 
our veins, and I’m the better man, by heaven, than you! 
What right had you to be born with this glorious dower 
of beauty that has made you be petted and caressed since 


The Crime of Cain. 


•76 

your very babyhood, whilst I was an unlicked cub, for 
whom cuffs and ha’pence were too good? What right 
had you to woo and win a beauty and an heiress, and 
take her to your arms, under my very eyes ? What right 
had you to be my benefactor, my patron, my master, fling- 
ing me your sovereigns, and paying my debts, and shar- 
ing your pocket-money, like a prince? I tell you I hate 
you ! I hate you for your birth, for your beauty, for your 
rank, for your birthright, for the woman you love, and 
for the favors you have bestowed ! I hate you because 
you are Roderick Destnond, heir of Clontarf, and not I. 
I swore Fd have my revenge one day, and. Lord Rod- 
erick, I — have — had — it!’’ 

He paused, breathless with the fierce, mad passion 
within him. 

And Roderick listened, with blue, dilated eyes, but very 
calm now. 

' “I understand,” he said, slowly. '‘It is you who have 
betrayed me to death !” 

“It is 1” Gerald Desmond hissed. “I knew who mur- 
dered Kathleen O’Neal. It was I who bribed Morgan 
to swear your life away ! It was I who forged the note 
that condemned you ! It was I, my Lord Roderick, who 
did it all I” 

“Why do you tell me this?” Rory asked in the same 
stiff voice. “Why do you seal your own doom?” 

“Because I have sealed yours before it. Because you 
will never leave this spot alive !” 

He sprang upon him as a tiger springs upon his prey, 
his face blood-red, his eyeballs staring, his teetli clenched 
upon his lower lip until the blood flowed. His tiger’s grip 
was on his brother’s throat — Cain stood over Abel once 
again in the untold horror of murder ! Their arms closed 
around each other.. Roderick Desmond fought valiantly 
for his life. 

They wrestled — they struggled, breathless, panting, 
convulsed — in each other’s strong arms. Oh, God, that 
the radiant glory of Thy new day should so often rise to 
light the brute lust of blood in man ! 

Gerald Desmond was the victor. His right hand closed 
tightly on the blackened throat, his left sought for the 
hidden pistol. Its blue gleam flashed in the first red ray 
of the rising sun — the stfn that was to have lit Rory to 


Tlie Crime of Cain. 


77 

freedom, then its cold muzzle pressed hard against the 
temple of his fallen foe. 

For one second the blue eyes of Rory Desmond looked 
steadily up in the face above him — a look his murderer 
might never forget to his dying day. Then there was a 
bound, a convulsive leap, a strangling cry for help ; then 
the report of a pistol rang out over the solemn sea, there 
was a brief struggle, one or two convulsive throes, and 
the golden head fell back on the blood-stained grass, the 
blue eyes stared blankly up at the brilliant morning sky. 
And a great calm fell ! 

The murderer’s eyes looked over the wide ocean. Far 
off, rounding a distant point, a boat, propelled by a single 
rower, sped — the cutter of the ‘‘Dancing Dervish,” and 
honest Mike Muldoon. Far below, the rising tide licked 
the steep sides of the rock. One plunge, and the dead tell 
no tales. 

He lifted the stark body in his arms, and hurled it over. 
There was a great plunge — it went straight down like a 
stone. 

But, as he flung it from him, he could have sworn the 
dead eyes moved, and the dead lips parted with the words 
they had uttered in the crowded court — the deathless re- 
proach of the murdered Caesar, “And thou, Brutus?” 

He presjsed his hand over his eyes to shut out the 
horrid vision, and, hurling the pistol far into the calm sea, 
fled like a jnadman from the spot. 


78 


PART SECOND. 


CHAPTER I. 

TREVANNANC^, OR ROYAI, RRST. 

It lay deep down in the green heart of the Devon wood, 
that stately Norman pile known as “Royal Rest/' 

Long and many a day ago, Norman masons had reared 
its lofty turrets, its massive, battlemented towers, its won- 
drous pinnacles, its superb ranges of Gothic windows, its 
rich and rare carved stone-work and buttresses, where the 
clustering ivy and wild- dog-roses bloomed luxuriantly 
now — a noble and storied old mansion that had stood 
many a siege, where exiled king and hunted prince had 
sought and found shelter in the troubled days gone by. 

Royal Rest had been the noblest possession of a great 
and noble house — the only remainder of a long bead-roll 
of such possessions. It had been the sanctuary of hunted 
Jacobite nobles; countless Tory plots had been hatched 
between its grand old walls. Cromwell’s petronels had 
battered it in vain when Lord Dudley Trevannance held 
it with a handful of retainers, and lost his title and fair, 
broad lands fighting for the “White Rose and the long 
heads of hair.” 

A grand old place ! In its deep, dark forest lands the 
rare red deer trooped in countless herds. In its black 
woodland pools the wild fowl flocked in legions. 

Its glancing river was famed far and wide for char 
and trout, and on its sedgy margin the water lilies waved, 
and the white swans “floated double, swan and shadow.” 

Nowhere else in all sunny Devon abounded the par- 
tridges, the pheasants, and the rabbits as they abounded 
here — nowhere else crowded the. teal and mallard in the 
still, dark tarns, as they crowded at Royal Rest — a ter- 
restrial paradise, sloping down to the sunlit sea, covering 


Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 79 

leagues of country, of silvery beach, of stately deer forest, 
of gorse-grown heath, where myrtles blossomed and wild 
roses blew — a grand old place, with a chime of silver- 
tongued bells, the pride of the county. It had been a con- 
vent of Cistercian nuns in those distant days when con- 
vents abounded, and the “keys and cross and triple crown 
of Rome” held mighty sway over all broad England. 

The August suri, streaming through the quaint, ivied 
windows, with their rich heraldic blazonries upon the 
panes, stained with the crest of the house of Trevannance 
— a wounded eagle rending a hawk, and the imperial 
motto, “Triompho morte tarn vita ” — fell warm and mel- 
low on the head of the last lord of Royal Rest. 

It was past noon, and he sat with three other men at 
breakfast, and the lofty apartment was perfumed with 
cigar smoke, and the fragrant odor of Burgundies and 
claret, peaches and grapes, and the roses and clematis 
that surrounded the windows and wafted their odorous 
breath into the room. 

He sat at the head of the table, Vivian Victor Trevan- 
nance, the last of his name and race. Cornish by birth, 
as his name implied — for ‘‘by Tre, Pol, and Pen ye may 
know the Cornish men”-^this fair inheritance of Royal 
Rest came to him by the distaff side, failing heirs directly 
in the main line. 

The old Cornish homestead had long ago gone to fack 
and ruin, through his father’s reckless prodigality, and the 
elder Trevannance had resigned it utterly to the owls and 
bats. 

Recklessness was a characteristic of the race— a race 
hot in love, hot in hate, falcons in war, doves in peace, 
fiery warriors in the days of the Plantagenet, and Lancas- 
ter, and of York — yes, in the days when they fought and 
bled at Ascalon. 

They had lost a marquisate and a princely inheritance, 
but they were reckless still, under the velvet mask of lat- 
ter-day custom, with the same fiery old Norman blood 
leaping in their veins. 

He sat at the head of the breakfast-table, in a velvet 
morning-coat, a Manila between his lips, glancing over 
the letters the morning mail had brought him — a tall, fine- 
ly formed man of thirty, with a fair, frank, handsome 


8o Trevannance, . of Royal Rest. 

face, large, lazy brown eyes, and a profusion .of silky 
brown hair and mustache. 

The large, luminous brown eyes looked at you with a 
gentle, dreamy indolence ; the voice that spoke was slow 
and soft ; every lingering, leisurely movement bespoke the 
very essence of indolence, inborn and inbred. The hot 
Norman blood seemed to flow coolly and sluggishly 
enough in the last lord of Royal Rest. 

He peeled his apricots and sipped his claret, and opened 
his letters — rose-scented,, rose-hued, many of them, for 
the conqueror’s myrtle leaves strewed the path of Vivian 
Trevannance, and the fair ones went down before his 
handsome brown eyes, his ancient name, and his noble 
rent-roll, as the rabbits before the ring of his Lancaster 
rifle. And constancy had never been his strong point ; he 
bowed lightly at each fair shrine, but he worshipped long 
at none. 

“Fetters are fetters, though they be wreathed of rose- 
chains,” he said, wearily; “and, like our wronged eagle, 
we of Trevannance triumph in death as in life. We live 
free, or we cease to live.” 

Glancing slightly over the fair, perfumed billets ere he 
threw them aside, he paid little heed to the talk of the 
other men over their omelets and salmon cutlets, though 
that talk ran on a very interesting theme — the dehut of a 
new beauty. 

“Loveliest thing the sun shines on !” declared Lord Guy 
Rivers, enthusiastically. “Saw her presented — made the 
greatest sensation of the century — delicious as one of 
Greuze’s beauties — not that style, though — reminds yon 
of Joanna of Naples, you know, only got black hair — too 
beautiful, by Jove ! for, — she’s ice !” 

“Ah, bah ! ice, with all that Morisco blood in her veins ! 
Stuff and nonsense!” retorted Major Langley, of the 
Guards. 

“Pure Castilian, old fellow ; no taint of the Moor. 
D’Alvarez on the distaff -side — grand old stock, with a 
dash of Irish blood. Gage Tempest has gone stark' mad 
over her wondrous loveliness, and the Earl of Greenturf 
laid his coronet at her feet the third time he met her. 
She looked down on him as an empress might, said no, 
and swept away. Greenturf’s gone to Central Africa, to 
forget the disdainful little beauty among the aborigines.” 


8i 


Tre van nance, of Royal Rest. 

“They call her the Rose of Castile—pretty, eh? The 
laureate dubbed her. A certain prince of the blood royal 
was so struck with her at the Drawing-Room that — ” 

“Oh, yes ! heard that story,” interrupted Lord Racer. 
“Got snubbed for his pains, didn’t he? I met Clontarf 
up the Mediterranean, last year. Grumpy old fellow. 
Looks like Byron’s Manfred or Eugene Aram — chronic 
gloom and all that sort of thing, as if he had a murder on 
his mind, you know. By the way, Clontarf got the title 
in rather a roundabout way, didn’t he? Was nephew of 
the last earl, and stepped in the shoes of the dead son. 
How was it ?” 

“This way,” said Guy Rivers, one of those men who 
know everything. “It happened twenty years ago, or 
thereabouts, but I recollect it perfectly. Lord Roderick 
Desmond, Clontarf — late earl, of course, Clontarf’s only 
son— was accused of murdering a little peasant girl — hor- 
ribly unlikely, you know, but he was — and found guilty, 
and sentenced to be hanged. Three days before the sen- 
tence was to be executed he made his escape somehow, 
and never was heard of again. They found a body some 
months later, washed ashore, and people supposed it to be 
his. Well, the earl very naturally, never held up his head 
after. Very fine fellow Lord Roderick was, they say; 
and when he died, Gerald Desmond; then a hard-working 
London barrister, stepped into the title. He did more — 
he married the Lady Inez d’Alvarez, the betrothed of his 
late cousin, and with the vast wealth she brought him 
built up the decayed fortunes of the Desmonds. He took 
her back to Castile, and there our radiant, peerless, proud 
Lady Evelyn first opened her violet eyes on this mortal 
life. Pass the Burgundy — I have spoken !” 

“Like an oracle !” said his host, flinging aside his let- 
ter and selecting a peach. “And now, what’s it all 
about ?” 

“The Rose of Castile, of course — the subject of the 
day.” 

■ “Ah ! and pray, what new floricultural wonder is your 
Rose de Castile ?” 

“Hear him !” cried Lord Racer, impatiently. “You 
\Hndal ! If you had not spent the last three years in the 
land of the Arab and the Mussulman, you would not need 
to ask that question. Why, Clontarf’s peerless daughter. 


82 


Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 

to be sure! Lovely as your dreams of the angels, and 
worth not only a Jew’s eye, but the whole body of an 
Israelite!” 

“My dear fellow,” remonstrated Vivian Trevannance, 
plaintively, “don’t gush! It’s fatiguing in August, and 
bad taste at any time. Besides, I’ve seen her.” 

“Seen her! You! Where?” 

“In a young lady’s proper sphere — at home. It was 
seven years ago, and I was doing the dutiful — making a 
sacrifice on the paternal altar, and that sort of thing. In 
other words, the governor and my lord of Clontarf are 
absurdly intimate — a modern case of Pylades and Ores- 
tes, David and Jonathan, you know — and General Tre- 
vannance desired me to meet him in Castile, at the resi- 
dence of his Pythias, Clontarf. Well, it is always less 
fatiguing to yield than to rebel. I yielded, and went up 
the Ebro, and saw what Racer gushingly calls ‘Clontarf’s 
peerless daughter.’ ” 

“Well, and isn.’t she? You cold-blooded critic! What 
else can you call her?” 

“It was seven years ago,” answered Trevannance, 
gravely. “I saw a dark fairy of eleven summers (that’s 
the style in novels, isn’t Jt?), with a pair of wonderful, sol- 
emn, shining eyes, who danced the bolero for us by 
moonlight, under a Castilian chestnut-tree. Damsels of 
eleven years, in the transition state, I don’t, as a rule, ad- 
mire; but this tiny lady had very little of the bread-and- 
butter miss about her, I must say. I rather think I thought 
her pretty. I must have, for I offered to kiss her, but 
she swayed away from me like a young queen. I remem- 
ber distinctly two slim, arched feet — altogether Spanish 
— would have served Owen Meredith for one of his idyls 
— and a pair of tapering ankles. They sent her back in a 
week to her convent, and I have still another vivid im- 
pression that she declined kissing me again at parting. If 
she were a prude at eleven, what must she be at eight- 
een ?” 

“An icicle — a Venus Victrix done in Parian marble — • 
beautiful as a goddess, if you like, and with no more heart 
than Minerva herself.” 

“Well, take care of yourself, Guy,” said his host. “I 
never yet knew a man begin by abusing a woman that he 
did not end by losing his head about her. And you’re 


Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 83 

likely to see more of her; she’s coming down to Warbeck 
Hall to-morrow with the Clydesmores.” 

“To Warbeck Hall? Whew! Who says so, pray?” 

“The governor,” Trevannance answered, lazily, “says 
he’s coming here himself. Clontarf goes with his price- 
less daughter, and the Duke of Amethyst is in their train. 
Commend me to a woman who can trample on straw- 
berry leaves 1 The gorgeous Donna de Castilian has re- 
fused him twice, and still his grace’s motto is, ‘Try, try 
again.’ There must be something in her, after all.” 

“Ah ! she can talk, when she chooses,” Guy Rivers 
said dreamily — “she and the premier — Dheard ’em at it 
at Lady Rocksilver’s one night. She was as brilliant as 
though she had been born ugly and a blue-stocking.” 

“All women can talk,” remarked Major Langley, de- 
cidedly. “I believe with the Persians that ten measures 
of talk came down from heaven, and the women took 
nine.” 

“Yes, they all can talk,” said Trevannance, in' his soft, 
slow voice ; “but they seldom say anything worth hearing. 
They will chatter for hours, and we like to hear ’em. 
'Nonsense from rosebud lips is ever so much nicer, now 
and then, than sense between beard and mustache, but 
not for a permanence. I hope your Castilian Rose isn’t 
clever. Rivers. If there’s one thing I do abhor and detest, 
it is a clever woman. They have always been my pet 
abomination since I wore petticoats, and had a strong- 
minded nurse for governess, who read Stuart Mill and 
Adam McCulloch.” 

“She’s fearfully and wonderfully accomplished,” Rivers 
responded, lighting a rose-scented cigarette ; “but I don’t 
think she reads McCulloch and the other fellow. She 
doesn’t look as if she did. She can sing like Malibran or 
Jenny Lind. Her shake on the treble notes is something 
sublime. She can waltz — oh, ye gods, how she can waltz ! 
— turns round in a nutshell, and fairly floats in air. She 
speaks four different languages, and each like a native ; 
and she embroiders elaborate vestments, and missals, and 
altar-pieces, and goes to matins and vespers and things 
every day of her life. She’s as clever as she is handsome, 
and, in these days of pretty faces and lackadaisical heads, 
a little modicum of brains is refreshing. Now, then, I 
say, let’s go and have a pop at the rabbits.” 


84 Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 

There was a general move and a universal lighting of 
cigars as they went. 

“And so we re to have her next week,” Major Langley 
remarked. ”Pity, too; she’ll spoil our sport with the 
partridges. When a man’s heart-hit himself, how can he 
be expected to bring down the feathered game ? If things 
would only turn out in real life as they do in novels ? The 
impregnable beauty’s horse runs away, and you rush for- 
ward and catch the rampant charger in the nick of time. 
Or the house catches fire — and she’s invariably left be- 
hind — and you rush blindfold through smoke and flames 
up to the fourth story, seize a wet blanket, fling it round 
the object of your adoration, and spring with her in your 
arms out of the window — an odd matter of thirty feet or 
so — and the next instant crash ! tumbles in the roof ! Or 
she goes out sailing, and a white-and-black squall arises, 
and the boat goes on her beam-ends before you can furl 
the mainsail, and you take a header after the lovely one 
into the roaring breakers, and with her under one arm, 
strike out heroically with the other for the shore ” 

“And the shore’s invariably a desert island,” interposed 
Trevannance, laughing, “where the bread and butter 
grow on the trees, and the trout and salmon swim up to 
your front door and beg you to catch ’em. And your 
beauty falls incontinently in love with you, the ‘preserver 
of her life and virtue,’ as the Ratcliffe heroines say, and 
marries you out of hand. Yes, my Henrique, it’s a thou- 
sand pities things won’t turn out in evefy-day life as they 
do in three- volume literature. We might all be elder sons 
then, with thirty thousand a year when the reigning po- 
tentate goes to glory, and the ‘loveliest of her sex’ hang- 
ing like a ripe cherry ready to drop into our open mouth. 
As it is — well, Clontarf’s peerless daughter is for none of 
us, it seems, since his grace of Amethyst has been jilted, 
so we’ll take heart of grace, and sing in her face : 

“ Tf she be not fair for me. 

What care I how fair she be?’ 

Ah ! there’s a fellow in the open now I”* 

His fowling-piece rang out, and the rabbit rolled over, 
riddled through the head. 

Sport abounded, and the four men separated in the 
South Coppice. Every few moments the pop, pop, pop! 


Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 85 

of their guns cracked out of the stillness, and great and 
mighty was the slaughter thereof. 

The afternoon sun was drooping low in the west ere 
Trevannance came loitering out of the plantation and up 
the velvet slope of lawn that led to the grand portico en- 
trance of the house. He paused beside a marble foun- 
tain where naiads disported in the plashing waters, as the 
sight of a fly from the railway, rattling rapidly up the 
noble oak avenue, met his eye. 

“Who can it be?” he thought. The instant after he 
had started forward in surprise. “The governor, by 
Jove \” he exclaimed — “a day sooner than he said.” 

He came forward with the careless grace peculiar to 
him, and greeted his father with outstretched hand and a 
cordial smile of welcome. 

“My dear general! happy to welcome you to Royal 
Rest. Why did you not say in your letter you were com- 
ing to-day, instead of to-morrow, and some of my people 
should have met you at the station ?” 

“Ah ! thanks. No matter. Didn’t know it myself, you 
see. Took the notion suddenly. How uncommonly well 
you’re looking, to be sure! Country air and quiet agree 
with you, eh?” 

“I believe it is considered beneficial. I can return the 
compliment, however, sir. London air and bustle seem 
to agree equally well with you. I never saw you looking 
better in my life. May I offer you a cigar?” 

General Trevannance accepted the offer, and, linking 
his arm in that of his son, led him to\vard the house. 

They resembled each other; father and son, and the 
bright, dark eyes of the elder man were as brilliant as in 
the days of his youth — albeit the thick brown hair was 
iron-gray now and the heavy mustache snowy white. 

He bore the stamp of the cavalry officer from head to 
Toot — upright as a dart, hale as a lad of twenty, and with 
twice the energy in voice and face and manner as his 
son. 

“Who have you down here, Vivian ?” he asked. “Royal 
Rest is full from bottom to top, as usual, I dare say?” 

“My dear sir, no. Only three men — Langley, of the 
Household Brigade, Guy Rivers, and Lord Racer. You 
see, I haven’t quite determined to spend the autumn in 
England; when I parted with Mounteagle, three weeks 


86 


Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 

ago, in Vienna, it was an understood thing we were to go 
up the Nile together before Christmas. To go, or not to 
go, is, with me, an open question as yet.” 

“Then let me decide for you, Vivian. Don’t go.” 

“My dear governor, really — -” , , 

“Come*into the library; the men are out after the rab- 
bits, I suppose. When do you dine? You can give me 
ten minutes before the dressing-bell rings, can’t you ?” 

“Fifty, my dear sir, if you like. Really, this grows in- 
teresting, not to say mysterious. In what possible man- 
ner can my going or staying affect, you ?” 

He flung open the library door and followed the tall, 
stalwart general in. A noble room, vast, long, and lofty ; 
the oak-paneled walls lined with books in rich binding; 
the draperies gold and purple ; the polished oaken floor 
covered with Persian rugs ; rare busts and bronzes on 
brackets and surmounting the lofty door-way and book- 
cases. 

General Trevannance planted himself on the tiger-skin 
before the marble hearth, his hands behind him, his feet 
apart, his square, resolute, handsome face full of im- 
portance, his'keen brown eyes fixed on his son. 

“Vivian, have you ever thought of marrying?” 

Vivian had thrown himself back amid the violet velvet 
cushions of a lounge, the impersonation of ease, but at 
this startling question he looked up almost as if a bullet 
had whizzed past him. 

“My dear father. Heaven forbid! What a horrible 
question — and so suddenly, too! Pray remember I was 
born with nerves, though you Peninsular heroes don’t 
seem to know the meaning of the word. Marry? God 
forbid !” 

“And why, pray? You must come to it sooner or 
later ; it’s like death and the income tax and other inevita- 
ble evils, not exactly agreeable, perhaps, but something 
there is no shirking. How old are you — thirty, eh ?” 

“Thirty-one and three months,” murmured Vivian, “old 
enough to know better than to marry. Good Heaven ! 
that any man in his sober senses should rush voluntarily 
from freedom into bondage, and bondage of the most 
galling sort! ‘The heart is a free and fetterless thing,’ 
sings the poet, and I agree with him — whilst a man’s 
single. I don’t think I was ever intended by a beneficent 


Trevannance, of Royal Rest. 87 

Providence to fill the role of Mr. Caudle. . When a poor 
devil wdthout a rap rushes headlong to St. Geotge’s with 
the wddow or the orphan, the fortunate possesor of fifty 
the widow or the orphan, the fortunate possessor of fifty 
cannot blame. But for me, or any man in my position, 
able to pay his tailor and his boot-maker, owning a decent 
house, a decent horse, a good Manila, and a comfortable 
dinner, to perpetrate that sort of madness — well, the taint 
of idiocy must have been in his blood from childhood up. 
No, my dear general, I haven’t thought of marrying, ex- 
cept as I’ve thought of suicide — as a horrible subject in 
the abstract.” 

^‘Vivian !” his father cried, impatiently, '‘I didn’t expect 
the cant of the present day from your lips. The young 
man of the period is weary of all things earthly at twenty, 
and good for nothing under heaven but to lounge in club 
windows, part his hair down the middle, sneer at women, 
and rail at marriage. But you’re thirty ; you’ve seen the 
world, sown your wild oats^ possess common sense, and 
I hgped for something better. You must marry — you 
know it — and now is your time, my lad, if ever.” 

“Indeed ! Do you see any symptoms of apoplexy, or 
heart disease, or — ” 

“Stuff! Here is my meaning in a few words: I want 
you to marry Lady Evelyn Desmond.” 

“Eh?” . ^ 

Vivian Trevannance absolutely started up on his elbow, 
so great was the shock of his surprise. 

“You’ve never seen her, I know,” pursued fhe general 
— “at least, not since her childhood — but she is as beauti- 
ful as even your fastidious taste can desire, with a fortune, 
my lad, of half a million, the best blood of Ireland and 
Castile in her veins, and the dignity and grace of an em- 
press. What more can you ask? Stay! don’t interrupt 
me. It is the dearest desire of my heart to see my son 
win this golden prize, for which dukes sigh in vain, and I 
may say nothing would gratify her father more. The 
earl and I talked this matter over only- yesterday, and he 
gave me to understand distinctly that — ” 

“ ‘Barkis was willin’,’ ” interrupted his son. He had 
fallen back once more among his cushions, digesting this 
astonisher as best he might. “Very accommodating of 


88 


Trevannaiice, of Royal Rest. 

the earl, I must say ! Did the young lady talk it over, too, 
may I ask, and send you here as Cupid’s embassador ?” 

“No, sir; don’t flatter yourself. The young lady knows 
nothing of the matter as yet. But when you have con- 
sented, she will consent.” 

“Will she? What a model of filial piety! ’Gad! if 
this isn’t like a chapter out of one of those romances 
Racer was speaking of this morning! Flinty-hearted 
father commands his only son to marry the girl he has 
chosen, and cuts off only son with a shilling because he. 
won’t ! Pity you can’t do that in the present case !” 

“No, sir,” retorted the general ; “we can’t do that sort 
of thing. Royal Rest is your own, and the place in Corn- 
wall is entailed, as you know. All I possess is yours, 
whether you see fit to obey or not; but, my dear boy, it 
would make me very happy to see my little Evelyn your 
wife and my granchildren around my knee.” 

“All born with silver spoons in their mouths.” Vivian 
murmured, languidly. “Governor, why don’t you marry 
her yourself? You’re the better man, and the better- 
looking man, of the two, by Jove ! ’Pen my life, it would 
afford me the greatest pleasure to salute the Rose of Cas- 
tle as my new mamma ! If she's so ready to obey her 
father and marry the man of his choice, what can it sig- 
nify whether it is Raymond Trevannaiice, aged sixty, or 
Vivian Trevannance, aged thirty?” 

“Don’t be a fool ! Talk sense, Vivian, if you can. I 
ran down here purposely ta see you to-day, before the 
Clydesmores came, and Eady Evelyn with them. , All the 
best men of the kingdom are at her feet. Amethyst is 
making desperate hard running, and Amethyst is the 
match of the season. Now’s your time, as I said, or never 
-^take fortune at the flood, or some other man will step 
in and bear off the loveliest lady in the land, under your 
very nose. , I have no more to say. You can do it. You 
know it will gratify me — if you care for that — and you’ll 
never get such a wife again while the world wags!”. with 
which the general produced his diamond-studded snuff- 
box, and refreshed himself by an energetic pinch. 

“Melodramatic — very !” was the languid response of 
his son. “And so, I have only to throw the handkerchief, 
a la Grand Mogul, and my ledy flies to pick it up. In 


Rather Romantic. 89 

other words, I have only to open my arms, and she’ll 
plump into ’em.” 

“She’ll obey ’her father, sir,” retorted the general, 
sharply — “more than can be said for many sons and 
daughters at the present day.” * - 

“Personal,” said Vivian, “but correct. Well, my dear 
sir, there’s the dressing-bell ; permit me to ring for them 
to show you to your room. Spare my blushes for the 
present ; give me time to compose my agitated feelings. 
Permit me to look upon my future sposa before I agree 
to take her to my bosom for life, and then — Pll think 
about it. Edwards, show General Trevannance to his 
apartments.” 

The moment the door closed after the stalwart Penin- 
sular hero, Vivian seized pen and ink, and dashed off a 
telegram to Vienna and Sir Foulke Mounteagle : 

“Di^ar Mount,' — Don’t forget the Nile expedition. 
Look for me in a week. Tre^vannance).” 


CHAPTER 11. 

RATHER ROMANTIC. 

The Clydesmores came down to Warbeck Hall, and 
with them the Earl and Countess of Clontarf, and their 
handsome daughter. It was a very fine place, Warbeck 
Hall, though neither so old nor so storied as Royal Rest. 
Like its master, who 6ounted his ancestors scarcely a 
hundred years back, it was rather new; but Lord Clydes- 
more’s great wealth and great talents stood him in stead 
of the purest sang azure. 

They brought a train of visitors down with them from 
the first, but perhaps more followed in the light of that 
dazzling meteor. Lady Evelyn, than — keen sportsmen as 
they were — came to knock over the partridges. On the 
evening following their arrival, there was a reception at 
Warbeck Hall — a very brilliant affair — to which scores of 
titled and untitled guests from far and wide came. 

- The fame of the wondrous Spanish beauty, and her 
magnificent fortune, had preceded her, and every invita- 
tion issued was accepted, save one. Mr. Vivian Trevan- 
nance was not present at my Lady Clydesmore’s ball. 


90 


Rather Romantic. 


“Gone to Paris; went this morning post, haste. Re- 
ceived a telegram from a friend at the point of death. 
Quixotic fellow, Vivian, on the score of friendship. Very 
sorry, but wouldn’t have postponed for the crown of the 
world.” 

And then General Trevannance took snuff and gnawed 
his silvery mustache uneasily behind his large, white 
hand. The Earl of Clontarf bowed, with a cynical smile, 
and glanced at his daughter. 

“I begin to think we are two elderly idiots, Trevan- 
nance — like two stilf-necked fathers in a comedy, making 
absurd matches for our sons and daughters, stamping 
about the stage, very red in the face and very furious as 
to voice, during four acts, and yielding to the low com- 
edian and the soubrettes, and giving them our blessing 
for their obedience, in the fifth. We had better drop 
that little matter we spoke of a day or two ago. Ame- 
thyst’s a very good fellow, and he deserves to win her.” 

Yes, he certainly deserved to win her, if untiring devo- 
tion could do it. He hovered around her now, a great, 
yellow-whiskered moth in the dazzling candle-flame, 
scorching his mealy wings, poor fellow, while the brilliant 
flame burned on without mercy. He kept fluttering near, 
drinking in that dangerous, seducive loveliness, the cold 
indifference with which she turned from him and his 
ducal coronet like oil added to fire. 

She was rarely beautiful, this young Spanish patrician, 
with the lofty grace of a royal stag. Tall and willowy 
and slender, she floated in a cloud of gold-hued ereo- 
phane, a Venus robed in sunbeams, with opals • clasping 
the arched throat, the taper wrists, dangling from the 
pink, shell-like ears, and gleaming above the low, dusk 
brow. The purple-black hair, that fell in a jetty cascade 
of waves and ripples and curls to the taper waist, was soft 
and fine as floss silk — a chevelure for an Andalusian 
countess. The clear, creamy white of the skin ; the 
mouth, red as a pine rose and sweet as a babe’s ; the 
aquiline nose with its proud, curved nostril; the long, 
deep, dark eyes of purplish blue, shaded by sweeping, 
jetty lashes — ah, wondrously lovely, rarely lovely, was 
this peerless Rose of Castile! She moved up and down 
the long suite of drawing-rooms with a floating, airy 


Rather Romantic. 


91 

grace all her own, the princely head haughtily upheld, a 
“queen of noble nature’s crowning.” 

“Confound the fellow !” muttered the white-haired old 
general ; “he’s as obstinate as a pig and as stiff-necked 
as a Jew ! If I thought this flying trip to France was 

only a ruse But no ; I saw the telegram, and I know 

that Beauchamp’s been at death’s door for years.” 

It was no ruse ; Vivian had really been sent for to Paris 
by a dying friend, and had really gone. 

“Thank Heaven ! I can dodge 'the yoke matrimonial 
without offending the governor,” he thought, as the 
“resonant steam eagle” flew with him far from Royal 
Rest. “The Rose of Castile is a gorgeous flower, no 
doubt, but if one must pay for the plucking by life-long 
slavery, why, the gorgeous Castilian Rose may pine on the 
stem until doomsday for me. No, my worthy parent. 
When my fiftieth birthday and the gout set in, I may 
turn' my thoughts hymeneal- ward. Sooner than that — 
excuse me !” 

The friend, Beauchamp, an English artist resident in 
Paris, was very near his end when Vivian reached the 
modern Lutetia. He found him watched over by a hired 
nurse and a little, pale-faced daughter of nine or ten. 

“It is on her account I have sent for you, Vivian,” he 
said, grasping his friend’s hand and looking imploringly 
in his face with hollow, haggard eyes. “When I go she 
will be entirely alone in the world. Vivian, by the mem- 
ory of our school-boy days, of our old, tried friendship, 
you will be her guardian, will you not? Take her from 
Paris; give her some quiet English home. I have but 
little to leave her, , but that little will suffice until she is a 
woman, and some good man makes her his wife.” 

And Vivian Trevannance, to whom man, woman, or 
child never pleaded in vain, wrung his friend’s hand and 
promised. 

“Her home shall be at Royal Rest,” he said ; “her future 
shall be my care. Have no fears for her, dear old boy. 
Marian shall be my daughter.” 

And the dying artist had gone out of life, his last words 
a “God bless you!” for his friend; and Vivian Trevan- 
nance, though he utterly repudiated a wife, found himself, 
willy-nilly saddled with a daughter — a pallid, desolate lit- 
tle sprite, wan and bloodless as a shadow, He wrote a 


Ratlier Romantic. 


92 

letter to his father, telling him all, and packed little missy 
and her nurse straight to England. For himself, the 
dead man’s affairs required his presence in Paris for at 
least another week. Those affairs settled, he must re- 
turn to Devon for a few days, preparatory to that great 
expedition up the Nile. 

“And Donna de Castilia won’t be able to hold out 
against the ducal coronet ddwn in the country,” he 
thought. “Amethyst will have the cover-side all to him- 
self, and can pop over, his silver-winged bird of paradise 
splendidly. I’ll have nothing to do but congratulate him 
when I get hack.” 

He thought this as he rode across the country on the 
afternoon of his return. The Devon fields, the meadows, 
the moors, the woodland, the open country spread away 
far and wide. Half unconsciously, he let his horse take 
its own course, smoking his Cubas and thinking of poor 
Beauchamp and his daughter. 

“I must get a governess for her, I suppose,” he mused. 
“She’s too young to send, to school. The governor must 
look after her while I’m out of England. Poor Beau- 
champ! I hope she won’t take a'fter him. There was a 
life wasted, genius wrecked. Halloo, Saladin! where the 
deuce are we I Astray; for a ducat !” 

He drew up his horse and looked about him. The af- • 
ternoon was wearing late ; the sky was thickly overcast ; 
black clouds hurried away before the rising wind. A 
storm was at hand, and he was in the midst of a desolate 
plain, with clumps of woodland in the distance, and no 
human habitation in view. 

A vivid flash of lightning leaped out, there was a crash, 
and then great drops began to patter, patter on the dry, 
cracked earth. There had been a long drought; all the 
more tremendous would be the rain-storm now. 

“In for a wet jacket, by Jove!” muttered Vivian, “and 
a score of miles from home, and this poor old beast giving 
out already. Pleasant ! and, as usual, no one to blame for 
my folly but myself. Ha ! a fellow-sufferer, as I live, and 
a lady at that !” 

The equestrienne had skirted the woodland, and now 
drew up, as the lightning set her horse rearing furiously. 
As she did so a man sprung out of the copse and grasped 
her bridle-rein. 


Rather Romantic. 


93 

“Money he exclaimed in a hoarse, thick voice ; “give 
me money ! I’m starving I” 

“I have no money/' a clear, silvery voice answered. 
“Let go my bridle-rein !" 

“I won’t! By G- — I if you haven’t money, you have 
rings and watches and chains. Give me what you’ve got, 
I tell you I I’m a desperate man, and not to be trifled 
with.” 

“You villain !” thundered a voice ; “let go the lady’s 
rein, or I’ll horsewhip you within an inch of your life !” 

The aggressor sprang back. He was a short, thick-set 
man, with a pair of savage, sinister eyes, and a head of 
grizzled, reddish hair, his face hidden by a huge muf- 
fler twisted scientifically about it. He sprang back at the 
sight of the gentleman upon a powerful black horse, 
brandishing aloft a heavy riding-whip. 

“Begone, I say !” thundered this apparition, “before I 
am tempted to break your skull ! Madame,” turning 
courteously to the lady, “I trust this ruffian has not seri- 
ously alarmed you.” 

He looked at her for the first time, and saw the fairest 
face, it seemed to him, upon whcih his eyes had ever 
rested. She was very pale, but not in the least terrified, 
as he could see. . A pair of lustrous violet eyes, deep, 
dark, shining as purple stars, turned gravely upon him. 

“No,” she said, very simply ; “he did not alarm me. 
He looks as though he needed what he demands, and I 
have no money.” 

The voice was melody itself, and the marked foreign 
accent with which she spoke rendered the silvery tone 
sweeter still. She leaned forward a little in her saddle 
toward the cowering beggar, swaying like a young wil- 
low. 

“You look poor and wretched,” she said in her slow, 
sweet voice. “I am sorry I have nothing to give you 
now. Take this.” She drew a ring from an ungaunt- 
leted hand. “Come to Warbeck Hall to-morrow, and 
send this to me by one of the servants — ^my name is in- 
side — and I will most gladly assist you.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” the suppliant said, with the 
whine of his class. “Fm very poor and ill. Fve walked 
from Plymouth to-day, and I haven’t broken my fast. 


Rather Romantic. 


94 

I’ll go to Warbeck Hall, my lady; and you won’t harm a 
poor chap because he attacked you in his desperation ?” 

“Harm you !” The lovely violet eyes looked at him in 
proud surprise. “I have said I will assist you. Go!” 

The man slunk backward, gazing with glistening eyes 
upon the rich ring. 

As he turned it over, the name inside struck his eye; 
the next instant a loud cry of fear, rage, surprise rang out. 

With that cry he was back before her, looking up in the 
proud, pale face, with a wolfish glare in his haggard eyes. 

“The name inside the ring!” he cried, breathlessly — 
“the name ! Is it your name, my lady ?” 

“It is my name, of course,” was the haughty answer. 
“What is my name to you?” 

“What do you mean, you rascal?” exclaimed the gen- 
tleman. “Be off with you this instant! Have you not 
annoyed the lady enough already? Madame, the rain 
will fall in torrents directly. We must make for some 
pla^e of shelter at once.” 

The lady looked around over the spreading plain and 
lonely high-road, with a faint smile. 

“Shelter! The woodland is yonder, certainly; but the 
woodland is scarcely the safest place in this lightning. 
There is nothing for it but to ride homeward and brave 
a drenching. How far is it, sir, to Warbeck Hall?” 

“Eight miles at least; altogether too far for you in this 
downpour. Look ! there is smoke ascending yonder 
among the trees. There may be a house, a hut, a^habita- 
tion of some sort. Let us make for it at once.” 

She bowed her head aiid dashed forward. Flash after 
flash of lightning play^^above them now. The crashing 
of the thunder was deafening, and the rain literally fell 
in torrents. The September afternoon was dark almost 
as night. Their horses made the woodland in five min- 
utes. The smoke still feebly ascended ; it arose from a 
camp-fire almost quenched in the plash of the rain. No 
house presented itself; instead, three or four primitive 
tents and inverted wagons told at a glance what the place 
was. 

“A gypsy encampment, by George!” cried Trevan- 
nance. “Well, better that than the open plain in this del- 
uge. Here, my man, we want shelter under your canvas 
— this lady and I — until the storm blows over.” 


In the Gypsy Camp, 95 

The gypsy — a tall, olive-skinned, handsome fellow — 
bowed to the lady with the grace of a Parisian. 

“You are welcome,, both, to our tents. Phara, tie up 
the horses. Redempta, give the lady and gentleman a 
place in your tent until the storm is over.” 

Trevannance leaped from his horse and gave his hand 
to the lady to dismount. She sprang off lightly and hur- 
ried with him into the nearest tent, where a dusky young 
woman stood holding up the canvas door-way. 

In lifting the folds of her long riding-skirt she chanced 
to drop her whip. 

“Never mind,” Trevannance said; “do not wait; I will 
return for it.” 

He left her in the tent, the rudest and most primitive 
of structures, littered and dirty to a degree, and filled 
with a dusky swarm, old and young. Strangely and 
strikingly out of place the fair intruder looked, standing 
among the dark-browed Arab tribe in her proud, patrician 
beauty and high-bred grace, diamonds flashing in her eyes 
and on her slender white hands. 

“Who the deuce can she be?” Trevannance wondered. 
“She is lovely as a peri of the poet. I can never have 
seen her before, and yet somehow her face is familiar.” 

He stooped to pick up the whip. It was an exquisite 
toy, inlaid with gold and enamel. A watch the size cf a 
shilling piece was inserted in the end. Above there v/as 
an earl’s coronet, and in letters of gold the name, “Evelyn 
Desmond.” 


CHAPTER III. 

IN TH^ GYPSY CAMP. 

And SO they had met ! Fate, that works in its own 
masterly v/ay, in spite of our puny efforts, had thrown 
them together after this romantic fashion. 

He was going a trifling matter of some thousands of 
miles to avoid her, and lo ! in the first hour of his advent 
in England, the enchantress arose before him, to lead him 
captive among the slaves at her chariot wheels, whether 
he would or no. 

“The Great Irresistible herself, by George !” exclaimed 
Trevannance, with a long, low whistle; “and, dolt and 


g6 In the Gypsy Camp. 

dunderhead that I am, I never suspected it, even 'when I 
heard of Warbeck Hall! Is it fate, and am I to play 
Benedict, the Married Man, willy-nilly ? My faith ! I 
might seek the world over and never find so fair a Bea- 
trice 

Quite heedless, in his first surprise, of the pouring rain, 
he walked back to the tent. She stood where he had left 
her, gazing out at the leaping lightning, the slanting 
streams, the black sky ; and in the primitive door-way, 
steadfastly regarding her, stood the gypsy, Redempta — a 
vivid contrast. 

“You have suffered in my service. Sir Knight,’' she 
said, with her brilliant smile. “My whip was not worth 
your drenching.” 

“It is worth a hurMred drenchings, senorita,” he said, 
presenting it to her with a courtly bow, “since it has told 
me whom I have the honor of serving. They talk of en- 
tertaining angels unawares — my case precisely. May I 
recall an old acquaintance to Lady Evelyn Desmond’s 
memory, or have seven years completely obliterated even 
the name of Vivian Trevannance from her recollection?” 

She looked at him and held out her hand with frank 
grace, the beautiful, gravely smiling mouth indescribably 
sweet and gentle. 

“Do me justice, senor; my memory is better than your 
own, since I knew you at once the first instant we met. 
Seven years is a tolerable time, but it has not changed 
Mr. Trevannance in the least. Since when have you re- 
turned? We thought you in France?” 

“I was but on my homeward way when I became the 
debtor of a most happy chance. And now, presuming on 
old acquaintance, may I ask how I came to find you alone, 
arid in peril from that insolent beggar ?” 

“By my own caprice, which I have to thank for all the 
mishaps of my life. We went this afternoon to visit 
some very romantic Druidical ruins, and on our home- 
ward way I separated from the rest of our party, and be- 
fore I knew it found myself hopelessly lost and bewil- 
dered. The storm was breaking ; the brigand sprang out 
and seized my horse ; and as all knights-errant should, 
you rode to the rescue at the very instant when I needed 
3'ou most. It is like a scene in ‘Don Quixote’ or ‘Amadis 
de Gaul.’ ” 


In tlie Gypsy Camp. 97 

“A doubtful compliment, Lady Evelyn. I am Don 
Quixote, I suppose. Well, even the antiquated tilter at 
windmills might become a knight-errant in the service of 
Lady Evelyn.” 

“Pray, don’t !” Lady Evelyn said, a little impatiently. 
“I detest compliments, and — those who pay them. I am 
in your debt; don’t cancel the obligation with hackneyed 
phrases.” 

“With which you are surfeited. But there are those to 
whom truth must ever sound like compliment. You have 
made one captive at least, Lady Evelyn, since your en- 
trance here,” lov/ering his tone. “Look at yonder dark- 
browed gypsy ; she gazes like one entranced.” 

He glanced toward Redempta; Lady Evelyn followed 
his eye. 

“What a handsome Arab it is ! A face for Murillo or 
Salvator, and with a suitably dusky background. But 
they are all staring, and most uncomfortably. Really, I 
hope we are not storm-bound for any length of time. 
They will be so anxious, mamma particularly, when the 
rest return without me. Are you weather-wise, senor? 
Are there any symptoms of its clearing up? Must we 
venture forth in the storm, after all ?” 

“It is clearing off,” Trevannance said, decidedly. “See! 
the clouds are lifting over yonder already. In half an 
hour, senorita, we may ride forth in safety. Pray, do not 
regret the mischance that has brought you an adventure, 
and me what will remain the brightest memory of my 
life.” 

His eyes spoke more eloquently than words or tone, and 
they spoke eloquently enough, Heaven knows ! 

The. beautiful, short upper lip of Donna Castilia curled 
scornfully. 

“It is your nature, I suppose, you gentlemen, to flatter. 
You carl not help it, it seems, and it is a pity. Besides, I 
have heard, the language of flattery is the only language 
Mr. Vivian Trevannance thinks women worthy of. 
Madame la Comtesse de Portici says so, at least.” 

The clear, violet eyes looked at him with a world of 
quiet mischief in their depths. The fair and flirting Ital- 
ian countess had been one of Trevannance’s latest loves, 
and he had slipped her flowery fetters coolly off his faith- 


98 In tlie Gypsy Camp. 

less wrists when the humor took him. But he met the 
cloudless sapphire eyes now with a most engaging air of 
injured innocence. 

‘‘Ah, La Portici will be malicious — always was ! Don’t 
believe her. I am the most candid of men, and always 
mean what I say, as you will discover upon further ac- 
quaintance. Apropos, Lady Evelyn, do you remain long 
in Devonshire ?” 

“I really can not say. It depends upon papa, and papa 
is as whimsical as a woman. I hope not.” 

“You hope not? How cyuel you can be! May I ask 
why?” 

“Because I should like to go to Ireland.” 

She said it dreamily, half to herself, gazing a little sad- 
ly out at the still pouring rain. . 

“I should like to go to Ireland — to Clontarf. They tell 
me it is in ruins now. I have never seen it, you know ; 
and yet Clontarf, not Castile, should have been my birth- 
place. It is the dream of my life to go there.” 

“And yet I thought the Earl of Clontarf but lived to 
gratify your unexpressed wishes.” 

“He will not gratify this, at least — expressed very 
often. It is odd the aversion he has to return there. 
Alamma, too — ” She broke off suddenly, as if annoyed 
at herself. “See, Mr. Trevannance, the clouds are scat- 
tering already.” 

“And the clouds that are to darken and blight your life 
are gathering!” said a deep, solemn voice. 

It was Redempta, standing with folded arms and glit- 
tering black eyes, gazing upon her guest. 

“My pretty lady, let Redempta tell your fortune.” 

But Lady Evelyn drew back rather haughtily, and 
waved her away. ' 

“Thank you, no ; it does not open so promisingly. I 
will wait and let the future reveal itself.” 

“Nay, my pretty lady, do not refuse Redempta. Her 
predictions never fail. Let me look in your dainty palm 
and foresee your destiny.” 

“No ; I never tempt the future, in earnest or jest. Be- 
sides, I have no silver wherewith to cross your palm, and 
the oracles, like other oracles, is a golden one, and will not 
speak unless bribed.” 

• “The gentleman will cross the gypsy’s palm. My lady, 


In the Gypsy Camp. 99 

so handsome, so haughty, let Redempta warn you of what 
is to come.” 

“It is evil, then? You really must hold me excused.” 

“Pray, gratify her whim,” said Trevannance. “It is all 
that is wanting to complete the adventure.” 

But the wilful beauty turned away a little disdainfully. 

“Pardon me; not even to gratify her whim. I have 
said I do not tempt the future, even if your dusky seeress 
could lift the curtain, which I very greatly doubt.” 

“Others have doubted,” broke in the deep tones of the 
gypsy, “and have found to their cost that Redempta 
speaks what the stars whisper. You will not let me read 
your palm, my beautiful lady, but the face tells its own 
story; and as you stand there in your beauty and your 
pride, T can see that that brilliant beauty will be your 
bane, that lofty pride be laid low. Shame and sorrow, 
suffering and disgrace, passionate love, and of that love 
passionate misery, are in store for you, my lovely, high- 
I'orn Spanish beauty !” 

The proud, pale face of the haughty Castilian grew 
paler still with intense anger, and the violet eyes grew 
black with suppressed passion. 

“Cease!” she commanded, with an imperious wave of 
her hand, an imperious ring in her voice. “You are in- 
solent ! Let us go, senor. I prefer enduring the storm 
to this woman’s impertinence.” 

“It is truth,” Redempta said, with a grave majesty of 
her own. “Your fate is in your face. And you, my gen- 
tleman, you will let the poor gypsy tell your fortune, will 
you not ?” 

“No! stand aside! Nonsense we might endure; but 
you, my black-browed sibyl, are insufferably impertinent. 
Lady Evelyn, let me entreat vou to linger yet a few mo- 
ments ; it still rains heavily. 1 will compel this woman to 
be silent.” 

“She will not be silent unless you let her predict for 
you,” Redempta said, loftily. 

“Then predict and be hanged to you ! Make your 
speering as agreeable as possible for the money.” 

He gave her half a crown. Redempta took the slen- 
der, shapely hand he presented in her own dingy fingers, 
and bent low above it. 

“I see liere wealth and honor, many friends and varied 


lOO 


111 the Gypsy Camp.- 

fortunes. I see here broken vows, and a fair bride won 
and lost. I see a wide ocean soon to be crossed, and a 
maiden less fair than she you leave behind, who will win 
your heart in spite of yourself. The bride you will wed, 
my gentleman, will be bright as the stars, with eyes and 
hair of midnight blackness. She waits for you even now 
in a land beyond the sea."'^ 

She dropped his hand, crossed her own upon her 
bosom, and stood gazing at him with wide, unwinking 
black eyes. 

Trevannance laughed. 

'‘Thanks, my handsome Zingara! So fair a future is 
well worth your half crown. You perceive, Lady Eve- 
lyn, how silver-tongued the seeress grows under the in- 
fluence of a coin of the realm. Pity to keep that black- 
eyed bride who awaits my coming in suspense so long. 
I fear she will be at the end of her patience before I go 
after her. If one only knew where that ‘land beyond the 
sea’ lay, now. Your description, my dusky Redempta, is 
poetic and vague, but not so explicit as an impatient 
bridegroom might wish.” 

“You mock Redempta,” the gypsy said, gravely, turn- 
ing away; “nevertheless, Redempta’s words will come 
true before another year rolls over your head.” 

“The rain has ceased, Mr. Trevannance,” broke in the 
low, musical voice of his companion. “Shall we go?” 

Trevannance bowed, offered her his arm, and flung a 
handful of shillings among the gypsy swarm as he went 
out. 

The rain had entirely ceased, and as they passed from 
the tent the hidden sun burst forth with a sudden blaze 
of indescribable glory, lighting the dark landscape, the 
dripping trees, the queenly i^eauty by his side, and the 
crouching figure of a man half hidden among a clump ot 
alders. 

“Your brigand once more,” Trevannance said. “Well, 
sirrah, what is it you want?” 

For the crouching figure had arisen and approached 
them, his baleful greenish eyes fixed greedily upon the 
lady. 

“T want a word with that lady — only a word. I don’t 
mean any harm,” the tattered unknoiwn answered, still 
steadily advancing. o 


lOI 


In the Gypsy Camp. 

Lady Evelyn said, facing- him coldly, “what is 
it? Speak out.” 

“The name inside this ring, my lady — it is yours?” 

“Have I not said so? What is my name to you?” 

“Only this, my lady: that. if you be the Lady Evelyn 
Desmond, your father must be the Earl of Clontarf.” 

“He is the Earl of Clontarf.” 

“Thank vou, my lady. And is he, too, at Warbeck 
Hall?” 

“Yes. Have you any more questions to ask?” 

“You encourage his forwardness too far. Lady Eve- 
lyn. The impertinence of these tramps is beyond belief. 
Begone, fellow, or— ” 

He flourished his whip, and the tramp slunk away with 
a whine. 

“I meant no harm. Thank you, my lady. Fll be sure 
to call at Warbeck Hall with your ring to-morrow.” 

“That’s a very singular beggar,” Lady Evelyn said, as 
Trevannance placed her in the saddle and adjusted her 
stirrup. “What could he possibly mean?” 

“Only his insolence. The better way to dispose of 
those sturdy beggars — poachers and thieves by profession 
— is to Irand them over at once to the authorities.” 

They dashed off togther, the tall, slender figure of the 
fair equestrienne lookirhg its b«st as she sat her horse as 
easily as a rocking-chair. 

Trevannance thought involuntarily of Queen Guine- 
vere and the laureate’s lire: : 

“She looked^ so lovely as she swayed 
The rein with dainty finger-tips. 

‘A man had given all other bliss 
And all his wordly worth for this. 

To waste his whole heart in one kiss 
Upon her perfect lips.” 

“Honor thy father, that thy days may be long in the 
land,” thought Trevannance, gazing on that exquisite 
face. “It would be a pity to disappoint the two gover- 
nors, since they have set their hearts on the match; a 
greater pity to gift all this perfect beauty to that dolt, 
Amethyst. My peerless Rose of Castile, do you dream, 
I wonder, that your future husband rides by your side?” 

And while the cavalier and his lovely lady galloped 


102 Mother and Daughter. 

gayly away toward the setting sun, the beggar in the inky 
cloak reared himself upright and watched them out of 
sight with vengeful, tigerish eyes. 

“For twenty years he has prospered. An earl’s coro- 
net, ill-gotten, has graced his head ; the woman he loved 
has been his own ; wealth and honor and greatness among 
men, all are his. For twenty years I have been an outcast 
and a felon, ill and poor, despised and forgotten, and his 
daughter flings me alms as she would meat to a dog! 
Well, it is my turn now, and I’ll tear the coronet from his 
head, the honor from his name, the wife from his bosom I 
I’ll lower that beautiful, haughty head of yours, my lovely 
Lady Evelyn, to the dust ! Roderick Desmond, in his. 
bloody grave, shall be avenged at last !” 


CHAPTER IV. 
mothe:r and daughter. 

She lay on a low couch before the fire — Inez, Countess 
of Clontarf. A confirmed invalid, she was always chilly. 
Accustomed to the tropic heat of her own lovely, sunlit 
land, England, with its cold rains, its easterly winds, and 
damp sea fogs, was only Tendered endurable, even in its 
warmest summer months, by a glowing fire. 

She lay back amid the silken, rose-hued pillows of her 
lounge, watching the red glow of the embers, whilst the 
gleam of the wax-lights shone down on her pale, dark, 
delicate beauty — in the ^velvet depths of the solemn, shin- 
ing eyes — on the chiseled, beautiful lips, compressed in a 
hard, thin line of pain. 

She looked like some frail waxen japonica — lovely and 
fragile, pale as a snow-wreath, and with deep lines of suf- 
fering and endurance marking the low brow and delicate 
mouth. 

Beautiful she must ever be, even in decay ; but it was a 
worn and weary beauty now, and the rare smile that came 
and went so swiftly was cold as moonshine on snow. 

The dainty little boudoir was all that heart could desire, 
or wealth procure, or refined taste suggest. Its rose 
hangings gave a delicious air 6f warmth and mellowness. 
Its silver swinging chandeliers ; its inlaid toilet-tables. 


Mother and Daughter. 103 

draped in lace ; its lofty mirrors, framed in Dresden ; its 
gemmed vases, filled with rarest flowers ; its crystal ca- 
rafes of perfume ; its wondrous beauties, smiling down 
from the rose-tinted walls ; its exquisite statuettes, agleam 
in the silvery wax-light — all were perfect of their kind, 
and fitted up a chamber for a queen. 

Lady Clontarf, wrapped in a gold-tinted negligee of 
softest Indian texture, her long, shining hair unbound, lay 
and gazed with dark, brooding eyes into the crimson heart 
of the fire. 

Outside the rain beat and the wind blew, the tossing 
trees in the park moaned wearily, and the solemn voice of 
the mighty, ceaseless sea came borne to her fitfully in the 
lull of the gale. The last day of September was ending 
in a wild night. 

The great house was very still. Its inmates had gone 
to their rooms to dress for dinner. The little silver- 
voiced ormolu clock above her head pointed its golden 
hands to eight as she glanced up. 

“She surely must have returned long ago,” she thought, 
a little uneasily. “Strange she did not come to see me at 
once !” 

As the thought crossed her mind, there came a soft tap 
on the panel, followed by a sweet, young voice. 

“It is I, mamma. May I come in?” 

“Come in, my darling,” Lady Clontarf answered. “I 
have been waiting for you.” 

The door opened, and her daughter, the Lady Evelyn, 
stood before her. In her dinner-dress of white silk and 
misty laces, a coronal of scarlet camellias crowning the 
rich abundance of blue-black hair, the lofty grace of the 
regal form, the brilliant light in the violet eyes — ah, not 
one of the lauded beauties, beaming down from the 
draped walls, was one whit lovelier than the Rose of Cas- 
tile. 

“My Evelyn !” her mother murmured, fondly. “I have 
feared for you, my darling. They told me you had 
missed your way and got lost.” 

“Foolish mamma !” — the radiant beauty bent to kiss the 
pale, sweet face so like her own — “they should not have 
told you. I did lose my way — was attacked by a brigand 
— saved by a gallant cavalier — overtaken by a violent 
storm — sheltered in a gypsy camp, and told my future by 


104 Mother and Daughter. 

a handsome zitana. Altogether an adventure, dearest 
mother, was it not?” 

She laughed softly, and stood up against the white mar- 
ble of the chimney-piece, the mellow glow of the wax- 
lights streaming down on the scarlet coronal and rich 
floating laces — a picture to haunt an artist to his grave. 

“Attacked by a brigand, my dearest Evelyn!” her 
mother cried. 

“Romantic, mamma, but quite true. Perhaps he was a 
beggar, not a brigand ; but it comes to the same thing, 
since he seized my horse and demanded money. As I 
had no money, he demanded my watch and jewels, and 
would have had them, too, without doubt, only on the in- 
stant up rode my cavalier to, the rescue.” 

“Your cavalier ! One of the gentleman in the house, of 
course ?” 

“Not at all — a stranger. That is to say — I dare say 
you remember him— Mr. Vivian Trevannance.” 

“Ah !” 

The countess moved impatiently amid her cushions, and 
looked up swiftly in her daughter’s face. But that beau- 
tiful face was supremely careless — the violet eyes full of 
laughing light. 

“You recollect, mamma, he visited us, seven years ago, 
in Spain. He had forgotten me, but I remembered him 
at once. He took me for shelter to the gypsy camp, and 
accompanied me home. As the storm was breaking again 
when we reached here, I invited him to enter, but he de- 
clined. He would have gone on, I believe, in the pouring 
rain, to Royal Rest, but that Lord Clydesmore and papa 
chanced to appear, and they really took him captive by 
main force.” 

“Ah !” the countess said again, very thoughtfully. 
“And he dines here this evening? What is he like, this 
young man ?” 

Lady Evelyn looked at her mother in surprise. 

“You asking questions, mamma, and interested in the 
appearance of Mr. Vivian Victor Trevannance? You see 
I know his name. What will happen next?” 

“Tell me, my dear.” " 

“What he is like? Really, I am not sure that I can. 
He is handsome, certainly — a stately and gallant gentle- 
man, with the perfect manners and finished ease of a 


Mother and Daughter. 105 

courtier — but what is the color of his eyes, or the hue of 
his hair, or the shape of his nose, I am not prepared to 
say. However, mamma” — with her gay, glad smile — “as 
you appear interested in the subject, I will take a mental' 
photograph of my preserver, for your benefit, at dinner.” 

The countess looked up, with earnest words on her lips, 
but before she could utter them the great bell up in the 
windy turrets clanged for dinner. 

“I must leave you, mamma. Ah, if you could but come 
down! It is cruel to leave you here alone.” 

“Better here, my dearest. I would be but the skeleton 
at the feast, and there is only you to miss me. Go — be 
happy, and young, and beautiful while you may. Gather 
life’s roses while they bloom. Only come back here be- 
fore you, retire.” 

“With Mr. Trevannance’s portrait? Certainly, mam- 
ma. Until then- — ” 

She kissed the pale brow lightl-y, then swept from the 
room, her silvery drapery floating lightly about her, and 
with all the lofty, beautiful grace of a young deer. 

Left alone, the countess sank back among the cushions 
with a heavy, weary sigh. 

“She is lovely as a dream ! She is hopeful and young 
— as I was once. Ah, Dios! what a weary while ago it 
seems. Will they blight her life, too ? Will she love this 
man to whom they will wed her? She does not know. 
She speaks of him so lightly. If she only dreamed — my 
beautiful, proud Evelyn! — that, whether she will or no, 
she must marry him ! He is made of iron — her father. 
What is she that she should venture to oppose his will? 
She is heart-free now. Oh, phiful Heaven, let her love 
this man whom she must wed !” 

Backward her thoughts went drifting nineteen years to 
a drearily loveless bridal — loveless on her part at least. 
Gerald Desmond had been a successful man. He had 
won all for which he had plotted — all. The coronet that 
had been the dream of his life, the title he had coveted so 
pa-ssionately, the woman he had loved with a fierce, 
savage, burning love, the heiress whose wealth had re- 
stored the greatness and splendor of a fallen name — all 
had been his ! He had taken his seat in Parliament. He 
had made his name famous as the name of a profound 
statesman, a stirring orator, a leader among the leaders 


io6 MotHer and Daughter. 

and law-makers of mankind. His ambition had been 
satiated to the full. The Earl of Clontarf was a synonym 
for all that is great and good. He had endowed hos- 
pitals, founded asylums, pleaded for the down-trodden 
and the oppressed, reformed almshouses, and headed mu- 
nificently every charitable work ; and yet, since the fierce 
fire of his love for the woman he had wed had burned 
itself out, and that ere the honeymoon month had ended, 
there was not in all the wide kingdom a more miserable 
man than this hidden assassin who had slain his-friend. 

For, dead and in his grave, Roderick Desmond pursued 
him and outrivaled him still. With his first wedded kiss 
warm on her lips, her lost lover had risen before Inez 
Desmond, reproachful and pale, and with one faint, moan- 
ing word — his name — she had slipped back in a dead 
faint in her new-made husband’s arms. 

He had stood between them from that hour, and now 
that nineteen years had passed and gone, the memory of 
the bright, beautiful lover of her youth was dearer to the 
Countess of Clontarf than her living lord had ever been 
in the hours when she had striven to love him nfost. 

He had murdered Roderick Desmond, and won for 
himself the loveliness he had coveted, but Roderick Des- 
mond still claimed his lost bride by right divine of that 
deathless love. 

There had been times when^in the midst of his impas- 
sioned caresses, his endearing words, so coldly borne and 
never returned, he had hurled her from him, in a parox- 
ism of rage and despair, and rushed from her presence. 
There were times when, madly as he worshipped her, he 
could have taken a dagger and plunged it into her very 
heart— that heart of ice to him — forever gone with the 
bright-haired youth so foully slain in his strong young 
manhood. 

And then, as passion unreturned must, that fiery love 
had died out and given way to sullen hate. Ah ! how 
brief the boundary ever is between loving and hating! 
And the warmer the love, the bitterer the hate. Gerald 
Desmond, slowly but surely, grew to hate his wife. He 
hated her now above all earthly things, and bitterly made 
her feel it. 

In the hour when his child was born, he had wished 
with all his soul for its mother’s death, for that pale 


Mother and Daughter. 107 

mother, looking up from her pillows with great dark 
dilated eyes,, that seemed burning into his bad heart, had 
caught his wrists in her cold, v/an fingers, and whispered 
weirdly : 

‘‘Gerald, the good God has sent me comfort at last t 
She looks at me with my lost darling’s eyes !” 

And then she had fallen back, the poor pale lips mur^ 
muring things pitiably small, singing fragments of the 
old Spanish ballads Rory had loved, and which she had 
never sung since his loss. And a curse, deep and mighty,, 
had come, crushed through Lord Clontarf’s teeth. In 
that hour he could have strangled mother and child. For 
the frail mite of babyhood, gazing with wide-open eyes- 
from billows of flannel and muslin and lace, looked at 
him indeed with the wondrous violet eyes whose light his- 
red right hand had quenched two years before. 

But the frail babe grew and flourished, and the father 
loved her with the only lasting, pure and unselfish love 
of his life. And once more he loved in vain. As her 
mother had been ere her birth, so the child was to him — • 
cold as snow, passionless as marble, submitting to his 
caresses, never, never returning them with one word, one 
look, one thought of love. It was his punishment — or 
part of it — and the deep, dark, violet, eyes haunted him 
ever like some avenging ghost. 

All day long they gazed at him in his daughter’s beau- 
tiful face, and at night — oh. Heaven ! — in the deep, still, 
solemn watches of long summer moonlight, of wild win- 
try storm, Rory Desmond rose up before him — the gold- 
hr.ed hair dripping with brine, the brilliant azure eyes 
stony and fixed — pale and horrible from his deep sea 
grave, until the cold drops rolled down the watcher’s 
livid face, and his hands had clenched in agony. 

Men wondered why the great statesman’s hair had 
silvered so soon — why, at fifty, he was more worn, and 
haggard, and pallid, and hollow-eyed than men of eighty 
— and set it down to profound study and ceaseless mental 
labor. And of all the world — his world — only his wife 
knew or guessed. 

For a horrible foreshadowing of the truth had dawned 
upon her. Had she not heard him, in his fitful and 
broken sleep, toss his arms and struggle wildly, and cry 
out, with a dreadful voice of agony that had pealed 


io8 Mother and Dan gh ter. 

through the silence of the still night ? Had she not heard 
that one beloved name shrieked in his frenzy? Had she 
not heard broken fragments that, strung together, told 
the whole grisly tale? 

Up to that time she had striven to do her duty — striven 
to like him— to overcome her loathing and repugnance — 
but she never struggled again. 

She had faced him one morning, after some bitter, in- 
sulting words flung at her by him, with a terrible light 
in her eyes that he had reason to remember all his life 
long. 

“Dastard V she cried in a voice that rang. “Coward 
and traitor! Women of my race have dealt death for a 
tithe of what you have dared say to me I Utter such 
words to me again, and, by all I hold holy, I will give 
you up to the gallows and the hangman, you murderer V 

“Inei 

He had recoiled from her with a gasping cry, livid as 
a dead man. 

“You Judas, who sold your master — you Cain, who 
slew your brother ! I know your secret at last I Beware 
of me now I Oh, God ! that I had fallen dead in the hour 
that made me your wife I” 

He had crouched down before her, pallid, gasping, the 
dew of death upon his brow. He had striven to catch 
her dress to detain her in his* first agony of mortal fear. 
She plucked it from him, and no words can describe the 
horror in her dilated eyes — the loathing, the repulsion, 
the hatred in her face. 

“Touch me not,” she said, wildly, “lest I go mad and 
tell the world all ! Never, while we both live, shall you 
touch my lips with a husband’s kiss — take my hands in 
a friend’s clasp ! Oh, surely I am forgotten of God, or 
I had never been your wife!” 

And then she had broken from him, and for many 
weeks they had not looked in each other’s faces again. 
And she had kept her word. There had been no open 
scandal, no public separation. The world saw plainly 
enough there was little love or union between the husband 
and wife; but in fashionable society that is such a com- 
mon case. Inez Desmond had kept her word, and — her 
terrible secret. She dwelt beneath the same roof fof her 


Mother and Daughter. 109 

daughter’s sake, but she and Gerald Desmond were sun- 
dered as far as the poles. 

She lay here to-night in her luxurious little room, while 
the ceaseless rain lashed the windows and the wild wind 
soughed among the trees, and thought of her wrecked, 
lost life. 

There was a world of despair in the dark, melancholy 
eyes that gazed in the ruddy fire — a settled night of sor- 
row. She loved her daughter very dearly — that daughter 
who Ijoked at her wdth Rory Desmond’s own blue eyes — 
and for her sake she lived and clung to life. But the 
end was not far off now. An incurable inward disease 
had held her victim for years. Any day, any hour, any 
instant, she might be summoned suddenly away. 

' “And before I go I should like to tell her the story 
of the past,” the countess thought. “She .knows there 
is some hidden sorrow and mystery in my life. She has 
asked me to tell her so often. I will tell her — sparing the 
man who is her father as much as I can, as I have spared 
him all these bitter, dreary years. They will compel her 
to marry this man. Well, if she can care for him, as 
well Vivian Trevannance as another. But before the 
bridal day she shall know how my life was blighted. Yes, 
this very night she shall hear my story.” 

She drew from her bosom a locket, strung round her 
neck by a fine gold chain. It held a bright ring of golden 
hair, and a frank, fair, boyish face, smiling and beautiful, 
looked up at her — the face of Roderick Desmond. 

“My love! my darling!” she softly murmured, “so 
foully slain in your bright youth by the hand you loved 
and trusted. My life — my husband ! — Inez will join you 
soon !” 

And then, with that pictured face clasped close, she 
sank down among the cushions, shutting out fire-light and 
wax-light, and went back over the weary past. 

Twenty years drifted away — the lover of her happy 
girlhood came back to her over the gulf, and lay at her 
feet as in the golden days forever gone. And the hours 
drifted on. There ‘were laughter and music, and light 
and luxury, below stairs, where her husband and daugh- 
ter were ; but she was a glad, gay girl once more, and the 
wide universe held but one treasure for her — Rory Des- 
mond’s love! 


no 


La Rose de Castile. 


CHAPTER V. 

LA ROSE DE CASTILE. 

'‘And so you have been turning out a gallant cavalier, 
my friend — you, of all men alive ! The fiery dragon 
rushes upon Princess Perfect, and, in the nick of time, 
up gallops Prince Charming on his mettled steed, with 
lance in rest, and routs the horrid monster. None of 
these accessories are wanting — the flashing lightning, the 
lonely woods. Beauty lost and chivalry daring. Mon 
Dieu! It is like a scene at the Porte St. Martin!” 

Thus spoke Virginie, Countess Portici, to Mr. Vivian 
Trevannance, leaning lightly over the back of her chair 
in the long half hour before dinner. 

A very charming little person, this French-Italian com- 
tesse — French by birth, the wealthy widow of an old 
Neapolitan count, a beauty born, and a coquette from 
her cradle. 

She was the latest flirtee on the list of the lord of 
Royal Rest, a tremendously exacting little queen, and 
with just a touch of jealous pique visible now in her long, 
velvety brown eyes. 

The voice in which she spoke was melody itself, but its 
sweetness only rendered its sarcasm the sharper. 

“We have been so insufferably stupid here of late,” 
madame went on in her low, soft tones, “that so stirring 
an adventure as yours is a positive godsend. I think I 
see that woodland tableau ! The brigand grasping the 
horse’s bridle-rein ; the swooning damsel ; the heroic 
knight riding to the rescue ! M a foil It ought to end 
in a love-match and a marriage.” 

Her silvery laugh chimed out sweet and low. Trev- 
annance stroked his brown mustache with an imperturba- 
ble face. 

“Should it? Who knows, then? Perhaps it may. 
The price is high, but the Rose of Castile is worth it.” 

La Portici’s deep-brown eyes flashed, but she laughed 
faintly once more. 

“Poor Lady Evelyn ! Let us hope she will escape so 


La Rose de Castile. 


Ill 


sad a fate ! Besides, your chances are slight, mon garcon, 
with a ducal coronet at her imperial feet. That imbecile 
duke! See him now stand there and gaze, with his soul 
in his eyes, at the door by which she must enter. Mo7i 
Dieu! What idiots a grand passion makes of the best of 
you! Be wise. Monsieur Trevannance, wear you chain- 
mail armor still. A man hopelessly in love is an object 
of compassion to gods and men.” 

‘‘Your warning comes too late, ma belle T whispered. 
Trevannance. “I should have heard it before I met you.” 

La Comtesse struck him a blow with her perfumed fan. 

‘‘Nonsense! Keep your sugar-plums for the Rose of 
Castile. I know their value. ' The most unwholesome 
confectionery going.” ^ 

“And because they disagree with you, you wish a sister 
belle to be made ill also? Characteristic of your charm- 
ing sex. Besides, I don’t think our Castilian Rose likes 
sweetmeats. She looks as though she fed upon the nectar 
of the gods. See Amethyst’s fishy eyes brighten. Lo ! 
the conquering beauty comes !” 

“La Dame aux Camellias ! Accept the warning, and — ■ 
and take me in to dinner.” ♦ 

Trevannance bowed low as he presented her his arm, 
but his eyes followed the tall, dark divinity robed in white 
and crowned with scarlet. 

She gave him a brilliant smile and glance of recogni- 
tion as she swept by on the arm of Lord Clydesmore. 

The length of the dinner-table separated the rescued 
lady and her knight, and the pyramids of gorgeous flow- 
ers and an intervening alabaster Hebe nearly hid her from 
view; but now and then he had glimpses of that loftily 
poised head, with its satin black hair drawn off the deli- 
cate temples, and the glowing crimson coronal. Now and 
then that soft, foreign-toned voice — so low, so exquisitely 
sweet — fell upon his ear; now and then her airy, silvery 
laugh reached him ; and once or twice the cloudless violet 
eyes met his full. But the wide dinner-table held them 
asunder. 

Amethyst monopolized her pn one side, and his friend. 
Lord Guy Rivers, on the other, and by his side sat the 
most exacting and dangerous and imperious of coquettes. 

“All the better,” thought Trevannance. “Allah il 
Allah! It is my destiny, and I don’t want to be led 


II2 


La Rose de Castile. 


captive by a oeaiity as perfect as the Venus Medici and as 
cold as a refrigerator. Heaven forbid she should ever 
cast me into that bit of bathos wherein she has flung 
Amethyst, Rivers, and the rest of her victims. Virginie 
is right — the grand passion is idiotic, and a deuce of a 
bore. I can play at love-making with the best, but mar- 
riage and domestic bliss — ^bah !” . 

And then he turned from the camellia-crowned siren 
over the way, and flirted, as Vivian Trevannance could 
flirt, with his gay Parisian-Neapolitan countess — flirted 
so recklessly that his father scowled from his seat, and 
the Earl of Clontarf shrugged his shoulders, and decided 
he would speak to his daughter about accepting the Duke 
of Amethyst as soon as he proposed. 

The ladies arose presently and swept away ; but in spite 
of the gay badinage with which he and La Portici parted, 
it was not the fairy form of the countess he watched from 
the room, but the regal figure of the earl’s daughter. 

‘She might sit by an emperor’s side and command him 
tasks,’ ” he thought. “What is it Othello says ? Her 
form is as perfect as a statuette of Coysvox; her face 
as pure and lovely as one of Raphael’s Madonnas. And 
all that is to go to Amethyst — a fellow who, in six 
months, will hold her a little higher than his dog, a little 
dearer than his horse. Faugh ! it would be Vulcan wed- 
ded to Venus! Out of pity for her I ought to step in 
and prevent the sacrifice.” 

He glanced disdainfully across the table at the heavy 
face and dull eyes of his grace — eyes that only beauty 
and billiards, horseflesh and horse-racing, could ever 
lighten. 

“ ‘A man must marry some time,’ as the governor re- 
marks. It’s the thing to do, and, by Jove ! she is a mate 
for a king. I’ll send La Portici to the deuce and devote 
mvself for the rest of the evening to my proud Castilian 
Rose.” 

Half an hour after, when the gentlemen entered the 
drawing-room, his glance sought out Lady Evelyn. She 
sat at the piano playing softly weird improvisations of 
her own that seemed strangely in harmony with the wild 
night-storm without. 

Heedless of Lady Clydesmore, who signaled him with 


La Rose de Castile. 113 

her fan — of La Portici, whose jealous eyes gleamed — he 
crossed at once to where the fair pianist sat. 

“I have been looking forward to this,” he said, “since 
the world first began to talk of its Rose de Castile. They 
tell me you equal Pasta, or Malibran herself. Will you 
not let me judge?” 

“I have not been singing,” Lady Evelyn answered. 
“I seldom sing, except to myself or mamma, and” — a 
little disdainfully — “I equal' neither Pasta nor Malibran.” 

“Will you not permit me to judge? You will sing for 
me, I know.” 

His calmly assured air seemed to amuse the petted 
beauty (women all like high-handed rulers). She 
glanced, up at him, a smile in the bdlliant depths of the 
purple-blue eyes. 

“My lordly autocrat, I will sing for you, will I ? Now, 
a gentleman who has made the fair sex the study of his 
life should know better than that ! It is a tacit chal- 
lenge to defiance.” 

“But you will not be cruel to meiihis first evening — 
you will sing. You sang for me in Castile — you danced 
the bolero, senorita!” 

“Ah, my sunny Castile! Well, senor, I owe you 
something, certainly. What sh?ll I sing?” 

“One of those delicious old ' Castilian romaunts — • 
sweetest music on earth ; one of your impassioned Span- 
ish ballads.” 

She struck the chords — she had a brilliant, masterly 
touch — and played a wild, melancholy prelude. Slowly 
her voice chimed in — a voice full of pathos and power; 
a rich, full, clear soprano, sweet as Jenny Lind’s own. 

She had chosen a weird, passionate song of her native 
land — stirring words set to a thrilling melancholy air. 

Gradually silence fell upon the room. It was so rarely 
she sang, her voice was so exquisite, her song so full of 
fire, and passion, and melancholy, so altogether out of 
the common course. 

The listeners held their breathing; weary walkers on 
society’s monotonous tread-mill, they were hearing 
something new. 

For Trevannance, he stood beside her gazing down 
with a kindling fire in his hazel eyes, a new light in his 
calm face. That proud, princely head, witli its rich, wav- 


La Rose de Castile. 


114 

ing black hair, its crimson crown — that pure pale face, 
those fathomless, luminous eyes of blue — ah ! held the 
world another fairer than this peerless Rose of Castile, 
this proud young patrician ? 

And she might be his wife — his for the asking. Her 
heart was free — pure and proud as her face; something 
deeper and nobler than had ever been stirred there be- 
fore by woman’s beauty thrilled the heart of Vivian Tre- 
vannance now. * 

The song ceased, died out, mournful and low as the 
last cadence of a funeral hymn. It had told the old story 
— a Story of love and despair. With the last faint chord 
Trevannance bent over her. 

“Thank you, Lady Evelyn,” he said, simply. “I will 
not soon forget this night or your song.” 

She rose with a light laugh, conscious that she had 
made a “sensation.” 

“I told you I sang seldom, senor. See what comes of 
it! They absolutely listen. Lady Clydesmore, will you 
show me that portfolio of Irish drawings you spoke of 
to-day? Who knows? Clontarf may be among them.” 

She moved gracefully away. Some one else came to 
the piano. The Countess Portici from her velvet sofa 
glared — yes, glared — across at her recusant lover as he 
followed and took his seat beside Lady Evelyn. 

“She sang for that fellowl” murmured poor Ame- 
thyst, pathetically ; “she never would sing for me. Look 
at him now ! And this is his first meeting, and she looks 
as if she likes it. Confound him ! he always had the as- 
surance of the dooce.” 

“She does like it,” La Comtesse responded, setting her 
pearly teeth. “Your marble beauty is only marble to 
dolts and bunglers. When the right hand touches it, the 
marble turns to flesh. Take care, my proud Castilian! 
the changing sea, the shifting quicksand, the veering 
wind, were never half so firkle as Vivian Trevannance.” 

“She speaks as if she had suffered from the fickleness,” 
thought his grace. “Why do. the women all go down be- 
fore that fellow, I wonder? He’s well-looking, I dare 
say, and he’s acknowledged the best waltzer in London ; 
but why should that make him irresistible? His praise 
is a woman’s crown ; his commendation makes a belle 


The Story of the Past. 115 

the fashion. I thought Lady Evelyn Desmond had 
sense, but she’s no better than the rest.” 

It certainly looked like it. Lady Evelyn, who never 
allowed herself to be monopolized by any gentleman, al- 
lowed herself to be monopolized by Trevannance to- 
night. The rich, blue eyes wore an unwonted brilliance, 
the exquisite lips were half apart as she listened. He 
might have been declaring a deathless passion in sound- 
ing hexameters as far as looks went. In reality, he was 
only telling her of a last year’s visit to Wicklow, a pil- 
grimage to Clontarf. He described the wild mountain 
and coast scenery, the picturesque riiins of Clontarf Cas- 
tle, promised her a faithful sketch of it soon, and she 
listened with a deep, intense interest, unconscious of the 
speeding hours and the significant glances of the lookers- 
on. It was very like a flirtation — from a distance. Tre- 
vannance saw the faces of the Duke of Amethyst, Lord 
Rivers & Co., and smiled covertly in wicked delight. 

^'Triompho morte tarn vita! It is the motto of our 
house. To carry off the highest-priced Circassian in 
Mayfair, the belle of London society, the beauty of the 
day. By Jove! if a fellow can’t , distinguish himself by 
his deeds of klerring-do,’ let him distinguish himself in 
the Court of Cupid. My lovely Castilian Rose, I’ll win 
you and wear you if I can !” 

There was a self-satisfied smile on his face as he saun- 
tered into the smoking-room half an hour before mid- 
night, and saw poor Amethyst glowering upon him 
through a cloud of Cavendish. It was something, this 
triumph over a duke, even though that duke had no more 
brains than a donkey. 


CHAPTER VI. 
the: story of the: past. 

The fire had flickered and faded out on the marble 
hearth, the wax-lights had burned low; but Inez, Coun- 
tess of Clontarf, lay motionless on her sofa, clasping the 
picture of her beloved to her heart. 

She had fallen asleep, with the soft dropping of the 
embers^ the beating of the rain, and the wailing of the 


ii6 Tlie Story of tlie Past. 

wind for her lullaby. She had fallen into that slumber, 
the tears still wet on her dark lashes ; but the slumber 
was a very light one. 

The gentle opening of the door aroused her. She 
looked up to see the silver-white vision of her daughter, 
the loving smile on the beautiful face, the camellia crown 
on the queenly head. 

. “Asleep, mamma ? And I have disturbed you ! Shall 
I ring for your maid? It is much too late for you to be 
up.” 

“Not yet, my daughter. Come in. You do not look 
sleepy. Your eyes are like blue stars.” She kissed the 
drooping lids with a passionate love that had a deeper 
meaning than her daughter knew of. “What has made 
them so bright, dearest?” 

Lady Evelyn laughed as she sank down by her 
mother’s couch. The beautiful, brilliant face softened 
wondrously; all its cold pride vanished; she was another 
creature by that beloved mother’s side. 

She made a radiant picture there, her perfumed laces 
floating silvery about her, the crimson-crowned head 
drooping, the rich blue eyes so luminously sweet. 

“How can I tell?” she said, gayly, in answer to her 
mother’s question. “Not belladonna, certainly, mamma. 
Perhaps Mr. Vivian Trevannance. We have been to- 
gether for the last two hours. 

“Indeed ! An unwonted condescension on my Lady 
Evelyn’s part, is it not? He is agreeable, then?” 

“Most agreeable ; very conversative ; very clever,” 
Lady Evelyn responded, with perfect calm. 

“How quietly Donna Evelyn says it ! As though he 
were seventy, and hoary-headed.” 

The violet eyes opened wide. 

“What does that signify, mamma? Mr. Trevannance 
can talk — more than I can say for many men in society. 
He is clever and agreeable, and — knows it. He talked 
to me of Clontarf.” . 

“Of Clontarf! He has been there, then?” 

“Last year. He has promised me a sketch of the old 
castle. Ah, how much I desire to go there 1 Mamma, 
why is it that papa will gratify every other whim of mine 
but this?” 


Tlie Story of the Past. 117 

The pale face of the countess darkened ; a strange glit- 
ter came into her eyes. 

“It is one of your papa’s secrets, my dear. He has 
many. I do not think he will ever visit Clontarf of his 
own free will again.” 

“And why? Mamma, why is this estrangement be- 
tween him and you? Is there some dark and hidden se- 
cret in the life of the Earl of Clontarf? Why does he 
wear that darkly brooding face? Why does he always 
look so gloomily stern, so moodily unhappy? He never 
laughs ; he never smiles ; he is ever wrapped in gloom ; 
he looks at me sometimes as though he feared me. It 
seems strange, mamma, but it is true.” 

“It is not strange,” Lady Clontarf said, that glitter 
shining in her black eyes. “He does fear you.” 

“And why?” 

“Because, my daughter, you look at him with the eyes 
of the dead !” 

“Mamma !” 

“Oh, my love ! my daughter ! there has been terrible, 
terrible wrong done in the past ! My life has been 
blighted, my heart broken, and another heart that loved 
me — the noblest, the bravest, the best that ever beat in 
man — stilled forever in death. You have the eyes of the 
dead — the blue, bright eyes of Roderick Desmond, the 
plighted husband of my youth, the one love of my life- 
time. My child ! my child ! but for you I should have 
died or gone mad in mv misery long ago.” 

“Mother!” 

“Wild words, are they not? I have hidden, or striven 
to hide, my trouble from you and the world for many a 
weary year, but I must speak at last. Oh, my darling! 
my life has been a very bitter one — a long, cruel mar- 
tyrdom dragged on for your sake. Thank God ! the end 
is very near now.” 

“Mamma ! mamma !“ her daughter cried, wildly, “what 
do you mean ? Has papa ” 

“Hush ! not a word 1 He is your father, and he loves 
you. Once he loved me, too ; but I — My heart was 
another’s before I ever knew him. My heart has been 
with that other all these ye^rs in his unknown grave.” 

“He is dead, then, this other of whom you speak?” 

“Dead for twenty long years,' my daughter — most 


ii8 


The Story of the Past. 

foully, most cruelly murdered ! Twenty years slain, and 
still unavenged !” 

Lady Evelyn had grown very pale. She sat clasping 
her mother’s hands, gazing with troubled, earnest eyes 
into that mother’s pallid, agitated face, a dread forebod- 
ing of something horrible weighing upon her. 

‘'You will tell me your story, will you not, my 
mother?” she said, soothingly, caressingly. “I have so 
long desired to hear it. And it will do you good — a sor- 
row told is a sorrow half alleviated. Brooding darkly 
over our troubles in secret adds tenfold to their burden. 
You will tell me, mother mine, this sad and cruel story 
of the past, of the lover you have lost ? Ah ! his picture, 
is it not?” 

She lifted the locket and gazed long and earnestly at 
the pictured face. 

“And this was Roderick Desmond ! A noble and 
beautiful countenance, one to win any woman’s heart. 
And they murdered him ! so young, so bright, so fair ! 

It was a cowardly and dastardly deed, one that should 
not go unavenged.” 

“Then be it yours to avenge it !” her mother exclaimed, 
suddenly ; “do you have strength for what I never dared 
undertake! You are braver, stronger, more self-sus- 
tained, cleverer than I ever was. Be it yours, then, Eve- 
lyn Desmond, to bring to light this hidden murderer, to 
ferret out this unknown assassin, and drag him to his 
doom !” 

She grasped her daughter’s wrist, her black eyes blaz- 
ing, a hot, hectic flush burning deeply on either worn 
cheek. 

“I was a coward, I tell you, Evelyn, a moral coward — 
the first of my race that ever was. I was afraid to dis- 
cover the murderer of the man ‘ I loved, lest he should 

prove to be Oh, my God I what am I saying? And 

he is her father !” 

She dropped her daughter’s wrist and shrank away, • 
hiding her face in her hands, shuddering from head to 
foot. 

Evelyn sat and gazed at her with startled, solemn eyes, 
deathly pale. 

“No, no, no !” the Countess of Clontarf cried. “Heed 
me not, Evelyn 1 Neither must you seek for him. Let 


The Story of the Past. 119 

the dead rest, let the murderer go. There is One above 
who, in His own good time, will avenge innocent blood. 
But, oh, it is hard, it is cruel, it is bitter as death! In 
the deep dead of night, Evelyn, he rises up before me, 
my Roderick, with his pale, reproachful face, as if to ask 
why I do not bring his slayer to punishment. I see him, 
Evelyn, often and often, as plainly as I see you now.’’ 

“Mamma,” Lady Evelyn said, softly, soothingly, in 
their own liquid Castilian tongue, “be calm. See ! the 
cold drops are on your .poor, pale face, and your hands 
and temples are^ like fire. Forget this wild talk of ven- 
geance ; tell me that story of your lost lover, who is in 
heaven now. I will bathe your face and hands with this 
Cologne, and we will speak of finding the guilty one 
after.” 

The caressing tone soothed the excited countess ; the 
flush faded, the glitter died out of her black, melancholy 
eyes in a mist of tears. She kissed her daughter’s ca- 
ressing hand. 

“My dear one! you are better and wiser than I. Yes, 

I will tell you. It was twenty years ago, but to me it is 
as twenty hours. The events of yesterday are as a dim 
dream of all those long, lonely, intervening years. Out 
of the retrospect, that time alone stands clear and vivid — 
the golden summer of my desolate life. 

“I saw him first, my daughter, one never-to-be-forgot- 
ten night, beaming down upon me through the flames 
and smoke of a burning ship — the face of a preserving 
angel. We were off the Irish coast; our vessel had taken 
fire ; it was a wild, windy night ; there seemed nothing but 
death inevitable. We stood together, alone, to die, my 
father arid I. He came to us, my Evelyn, in his yacht. 

I can see him now as he stood erect upon the deck, vivid ^ 
in the lurid glow of the flames — so brave, so bright, so 
beautiful ! I can hear his clear voice as he called to us to 
leap into the sea, our one chance amid the horrors of that 
night. My father took me in his arms, there was a 
plunge into the mad, black waters, then darkness, and all 
life blotted out. 

“I opened my eyes in the cabin of the ‘Nora Creina,’ 
and he was bending above me. I was alone in the world. 
He had saved me at the risk of his own life, but my poor 
father had gone down ! 


120 


The Story of the Past. 

“He took me to his home, to Clontarf Castle — dear old 
Clontarf ! — where his father and aunt received me as they 
might have received a child of their own rescued from 
death. And there I learned to love him— nay, had I not 
loved him from the first? My whole heart went out to 
him with a passionate abandon that I pray you may never 
know. And he loved me, my Evelyn, as dearly, as truly, 
as purely as man ever loved woman. Our wedding-day 
was named ; our sky seemed without one cloud ; my life, 
sleeping and waking, was one endless dream of bliss. I 
was too happy; my heaven was on earth. Such intense 
and perfect joy can never last in this lower world. The 
blow came sudden and swift, without one word of warn- 
ing, and I lost all in an hour. 

“A girl was found drowned — a peasant girl who had 
loved my darling, as who could fail to love him? She 
was betrothed to an Englishman named Morgan, a hang- 
dog-looking ruffian whom she hated and despised, but 
whom her father was forcing her, for his own selfish ends, 
-to wed. They found her drowned, and they fixed the 
guilt of that horrible deed upon my Roderick, who loved 
her as' he might a sister. They forged a note in his 
hand — I know it was forged — appointing a meeting at 
the river — that meeting from which she never returned 
alive. It was Morgan who swore his life away. Cir- 
cumstances were against him, and, oh, my daughter, they 
condemned him to death — the horrible death of a mur- 
derer ! 

“How I lived through that time the good God only 
knows. I neither went mad nor djed, though my frantic 
prayer was for either. But I lived" on, every day an eter- 
nity of anguish — such anguish that my heart grew be- 
numbed at last, and a merciful stupor took the place of 
that bitter agony. Life dragged on, the last week came 
— the week in which they were to lead forth the last of 
the princely Desmonds to die a felon’s death. 

“At the eleventh hour came a friend — to this day no 
one knows who — a friend who opened his prison doors 
and aided him to escape. Afterward they traced him to 
the sea-coast, to a wild and lonely spot, and there, my 
daughter, he was most foully murdered ! He had' fled 
from one death, only to meet another. There were all 
the marks of a struggle for life or death ; the grass was 


I2I 


The Story of the Past. 

soaked with blood ; portions of the garments he wore, 
and his fair, golden hair, were found, drenched with his 
brave heart’s blood. Some unknown assassin hr'd met 
him there, murdered him, and thrown his body into the 
sea r 

She covered her face with her hands, as though she saw 
the horrible sight before her, shuddering convulsively 
from head to foot. Evelyn kissed the white lips tenderly, 
and bathed the poor, pallid face. 

“I lived through it all. Oh, life beats very strongly in 
the weakest of us, since I could suffer like that and not 
die! But it killed his father; that loyal, loving heart 
could not endure such misery long. And at his request, 
and by his dying bed, I — married — your — father!” 

She pronounced the last words with a slow, strange 
solemnity, looking her daughter full in the face. 

“His uncle was attached to him ; he was the last of the 
name, of their house — the future Earl of Clontarf ; his in- 
fluence over that poor, heart-broken, dying man , was 
boundless. And he was Roderick’s father. Could I 
gainsay his last wish? I stood there beside Gerald Des- 
mond with a hecrt that lay like lead in my bosom — a 
heart as cold and lifeless as the lover I had lost — and be- 
came his wife. He knew it all ; he wedded me knowing 
I loved him not — could never love him. But, oh, 
heaven ! how little I dreamed then of the awful truth * 
How little I knew he, not Morgan, was ” 

“Whrt, mamma?” 

Lady Evelyn asked the question, livid to the lips, with 
a horror too intense, for words. Her mother shrank 
away from the gaze of those wild, blue eyes. 

“No, no ! no, no ! not to you ! Heaven forgive me ! 
How madly I speak! There are times when I think all 
my misery must have turned my brain. I scarcely know 
what I say. But can you wonder now that such a love- 
less union should end in estrangement and separation? 
Your father may have erred for me once; he professed 
to, with all man’s ardor ; but, Evelyn, he hates me now !” 

“Oh, mamma, mamma !” 

“It is true. You are no child. It is plainly enough to 
be seen if I were dead to-morrow he would rejoice in his 
secret heart. It seems very terrible for me to say this to 
you, but it is plain to the world, and if you do not know 


122 


The Story of the Past. 

it now, you soon must. He has no power to make me 
happy or unhappy, save through you. My daughter, do 
not let him blight your life ; do not let him force you into 
a marriage with a man you dislike.” 

“Dearest mamma ! how wildly you talk ! Papa never 
spoke to me of marrying any one in his life.” 

“No, but he soon will ; I know it. If you love no other 
— and I know you do not — if you can esteem and respect 
the man of his choice, very well ; I will not interfere. But 
if he attempts to coerce you, to compel you, then come 
to me, and I will show him that neither he nor any man 
alive shall force my daughter!” 

The glitter was back in her eyes ; her thin hands 
clenched ; the old, fierce spirit was far from dead yet. 
Lady Evelyn asked no question. 

“Very well, mamma,” she said quietly; “I will obey 
you. I will marry no man I dislike, believe that. And^ 
now it is very late, far too late for you. Let me ring for 
your maid, and see you safely in bed. Here is your 
picture.” 

“I have another for you. Hand me that writing-case ; 
thanks. It is larger than this. It may fall into other 
hands. You will keep it and cherish it for my sake, and 
for the sake of the dead ?” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

She took the picture. It was an oval miniature on 
ivory, very beautiful, and a perfect likeness of gold- 
haired, azure-eyed, fair-faced Roderick Desmond. 

“It shall be one of my treasures, dearest rnother. An- 
,other time we will talk over this rad, terrible story you 
have told me ; it is too late now. Here is Delphine. 
Good-night, sweetest mother, and pleasant dreams.” 

She kissed her lingeringly, fondly, and hastened from 
the room. Her own apartments were brightly lit and 
luxurious, .her maid awaiting her sleepily. She sank into 
an arm-chair, while the girl unbound the shining black 
tresses, and gazed earnestly and long at the painted face. 

“Murdered !” she thought ; “and so young, so noble, so 
wondrously handsome ! What a terrible fate ! Poor, 
poor mamma ! what bitter snflfering she has known ! How 
very dearly she loved this handsome Lord Roderick ! 
Shall I ever love any one like that. I wonder? Am I 
heartless, as they say, or is my time yet to come? Per- 


Old Friends Meet. 


123 

haps if I saw a living face like this, I too might yield to 
the spell of its beauty ; but I much prefer love a la mode 
to these fierce, powerful passions. What could mamma 
mean by all these wild hints of suspected murderers and 
compulsory marriages ? Poor mamma ! I begin to fear 
that brooding over the past is affecting her brain.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

OLD FRIENDS MEET. 

The tramp who had waylaid Eady Evelyn Desmond 
passed that stormy night in the shelter of the gypsy camp, 
lie fraternized with these dusky thieves and prophets, 
partook of their savory supper, and slept beneath their 
canvas canopy in. security. 

“I don’t mind staying with you for a bit,” he said to 
Phara. “Pm likely to remain in this neighborhood for 
some days, and I prefer lodging in your tents, my friend, 
to putting up at the Prince’s Feathers, below. I’m as 
poor a devil as ever walked now, but I’ll have a pocketful 
of sovereigns before the sun sets to-morrow.” 

“Will you, brother?” the tall gypsy asked, rather du- 
biously. “Where will you get them? Sovereigns don’t 
grow on the bushes like blackberries hereabouts.” 

The tramp nodded his head sagaciously as he lit a 
grimy little pipe at the glowing coals. 

“Never you mind, my dusky friend ; they’ll grow as 
plenty as blackberries for me. ' I’ve got a secret here,” 
tapping his sunburned forehead, “that’s worth a little 
mint to me. I’ve spent the last eighteen years of my 
life on Norfolk Island, chained like a dog, fed like a dog, 
used worse than any dog; but that’s all over now. I’ll 
spend the rest of my days in clover, and a certain noble 
earl, not a thousand miles -from here, shall pay the piper.” 

Further than this the tramp declined to divulge. He 
wrapped himself up presently in a dirty blanket, and slept 
the sleep of the just on his turfy bed, while the long hours 
of the tempestuous night wore on. 

He was up betimes next morning, shared the matinal 
refection of the swarthy tribe, made his toilet by a plunge 
in a neighboring brook, and started for Warbeck Hall. 


Old Friends Meet. 


124 

It was nearly ten o’clock when he reached the grand 
entrance gates, and he was in time to see an imposing 
cavalcade sweep under the noble archway. Fair ladies 
in hat and plume and habit ; gentlemen in cords and tops ; 
barouches and pony-phaetons filled with nodding feathers 
and glancing silks. The tramp drew under the shadow 
of the ivied wall and watched them. 

“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim it a hunt- 
ing morning,” he thought. “Ah, there he is at last !” 

His eyes fell upon the tall, erect form of the haughty 
Earl of Clontarf — the proudest and most domineering 
peer in the kingdom — amounted on a mighty black hunter. 
His fixed, imperious features were set as rigidly as though 
molded in iron ; the light blue eyes glittered with the keen, 
steely brightness of a falcon; the unsmiling mouth was 
shaded by a long, brown, grizzled beard. He sat his 
horse square and erect and firmly, as though he and the 
animal were one. 

The sinister eyes of the vagrant lighted with a fero- 
cious gleam of hatred and fury as he gazed. 

“Curse you !” he said ; “you double-dyed traitor, you 
bloody murderer! You revel in wealth, in honor, and 

stand among the highest in the land, while I Curse 

you ten thousand times ! I’ll make you pay for it before 
long !” 

At that instant Lady Evelyn Desmond rode forth, with 
Vivian Trevannance by her side, and the whole proces- 
sion cantered gayly away. The vagrant stood still until 
the last ring and clatter of their horses’ hoofs died faintly 
in the distance, and only a vast cloud of dust remained 
to tell the tale. Then he roused himself and slouched 
into the park, along the shady avenues, and over the in- 
visible fence dividing the gardens. Here men were at 
work among the parterres, and one of these, an under- 
gardener, looked up from his labor and eyed the ap- 
proaching stranger with a suspicious glance. 

“Well, my man,” he said, “and what may you want this 
time o’ day? It’s too early for broken victuals, if that’s 
wLat you’re after, and our ’ousekeeper don’t allow tramps 
about the kitchen at any time o’ day, I can tell you.” 

“I don’t want broken victuals,” the vagrant answered, 
civilly. “I only see the gentle folks riding away, and 
come in to rest a bit. I suppose your housekeeper won’t 


Old Friends Meet. 


125 

turn a poor chap away when she hears Lady Evelyn Des- 
mond told him to come/' 

“Hey?” cried the under-gardener; “what? Lady 
Reveling Desmond told you to come, did she? Blessed 
if you hain't a cool 'and at the business, you are ! Where 
did Lady Reveling Desmond come to 'ave the honor of 
your acquaintance, my Markis of Tatters and Rags?” 

“Look here,” said the tramp ; “do you know this ? Per- 
haps it will put an end to your chaffing.” 

He drew from his bosom the dirty remnant of a red 
handkerchief, unfolded it gingerly, and produced a rich 
ring. 

“Look at this, Mr. Gardener,” he said. “See them 
sparklers? It's worth a year of your wages. I’ll lay a 
button. Look at that name inside, supposing your edu- 
cation hasn't been neglected, and tell me whose it is.” 

“ ‘Evelyn Inez Desmond,' ” slowly read the under- 
gardener. “Blowed if it ain’t! I say, my man, you 
’aven’t stole nothin' lately, 'ave you?” 

“If I had stolen it, it is hardly likely I would fetch it 
here, my good fellow. I repeat. Lady Evelyn gave me 
this ring off her own fair finger, with her own fair hands, 
yesterday, and told me, with her own beautiful lips, to 
come here to-day. Now, then, my covey, what do you 
think of that?” 

He seated himself deliberately on a rustic bench as he 
asked the question, and leered knowingly up in the gaping 
gardener’s face. 

“Blessed if I know what to think!” responded that 
functionary., “It’s the rummest go I’ve heerd on lately, 
and you’re the rummest chap I ever met. That’s Lady 
Heveling’s ring, I dessay, but how you came by it is 
another question. You don’t look the sort of gent 'and- 
sonie young ladies and hearls’ daughters gives di’mon' 
rings to, blowed if you do! Howsumever, it's no affair 
of mine.” 

“They’ve gone hunting, eh?” asked the tramp. 

The gardener nodded and returned to his work. 

“They’re coming back here to dinner, I suppose ?” 

“You’d better ask Mrs. Lawton that, my man. I ain’t 
the ’ousekeeper.” 

“Well,” said the unknown, “I’ll hang about here any- 
how, and see. I promised the young lady I’d come to- 


126 


Old Friends Meet. 


day, and it don’t do to disappoint the ladies. You 
wouldn’t mind giving a poor fellow a bit of dinner in the 
servants’ hall, would you?” 

“Yes, I would!” answered the under-gardener, vety 
decidedly. “It would be as much as my place is worth. 
I don’t know nothin’ about you, and what’s more, I don’t 
want to. I don’t like your looks, Mr. Tramp. You may 
’ave an eye to the plate, for what I know. Go round to 
the servants’ offices at twelve o’clock, and ask for a slice 
o’ cold beef and a mug o’ home-brewed, and you’ll get 
it, very likely, and don’t you worrit me with your ques- 
tions any more.” 

The under-gardener turned doggedly away to his work, 
leaving the tramp to his own devices. There was noth- 
ing for it but to prowl about and wait until evening for 
the return of the earl’s daughter. 

“It’s no use trudging back to my swarthy friends, the 
gypsies,” he thought, “empty-handed, as I left. I may as 
well wait and take pot-luck here. I wish I had come a 
little sooner. And then I must see him !” 

He slouched away to a quiet spot under some lofty elms 
presently, and stretching himself upon the grass, fell 
asleep in the warm October sunshine. It was high noon 
when he awoke, and remembering the gardener’s words, 
he presented himself at the servants’ offices for his mid- 
day meal. 

“It’s agin our rules — beggars,” said a shrill-voiced 
kitchen damsel. “Howsumever, here, and be of¥ with 
you!” 

She brought him broken meat and bread, and a draught 
of home-brewed, and Lady Evelyn’s pensioner partook 
of the refreshment, and once more slouched back to his 
lair. 

The October sun was low i i the golden western sky, 
and the evening wind was rising fresh from the ocean, 
ere the hunting-party returned to Warbeck Hall. They 
swept up the noble avenue, a brilliant cavalcade, with soft 
laughter and animated faces, the last of the procession — 
superb to see — Lady Evelyn Desmond and Mr. Vivian 
Trevannance. 

The tramp stood boldly out under the waving elms as 
they rode up, clearly defined in the golden glow of the 


Old Friends Meet. 


127 

sunset. The bright eyes of the Spanish beauty flashed 
upon him at once. 

“My bandit,” she said, with her low, silvery laugh. 
“He is true to his tryst, though I had quite forgotten 
him. And you have brought back my ring?” 

She swayed lightly from her saddle, her bright, beau- 
tiful face slightly flushed from her rapid ride, her eyes 
shining like stars. Her “bandit” removed his tattered 
head-piece and made her a clumsy bow. 

“Here it is, my lady.” 

He dropped it in her gloved palm. The exquisite face 
beamed down upon him with angelic expression ; all its 
lofty pride was gone now. 

“I am glad you can keep your word. Wait here ten 
minutes. I will send my maid out to you. If you remain 
here, and find yourself in need, return to me.” 

She- swept away with the words, and the tall trees hid 
her from sight. The tramp gazed after her with a curious 
face. 

“Odd,” he thought. “She is his daughter, but she has 
Rory Desmond’s eyes, she has Rory Desmond’s heart. 
Does he ever see the resemblance, I wonder, when she 
looks at him? Or is he, as he always was, harder than 
stone?” 

The ten minutes had hardly elapsed before a trim little 
Parisian waiting-maid came tripping airily over the grass 
to the spot where he stood. 

“I come from my Lady Evelyn,” she said. “Are yoif 
my lady’s pensioner?” 

“I am.” 

“Then here.” 

She dropped into his horny palm a little heap of golden 
coins, and flitted away back to the house. The vagrant 
counted his^ prize with greedy, glistening gaze — ten sover- 
eigns in all. 

“She’s a princess, that’s what she is, and the worst 
I wish her is a better father. Now, if I could only see 
you, my lord, for five minutes. I’d be a made man ; but 
it’s no use hoping for that to-night.” 

He slouched away, but not out of the park. His steps 
turned in the direction of the river. He would loiter a 
little longer, he thought, in these pleasant pastures. The 
twilight was brilliant still, and there would be a silvery 


128 


Old Friends Meet. 


new moon presently to light him on his way to the gypsy 
encampment. The long fac^ade of the old house twinkled 
with many lights as he passed it, but no one was visible. 
Servants and -all were busy at this busiest hour of the long 
day. 

He passed the old mansion and wended his way along 
the shrubbery to where the river ran, like a strip of silver 
ribbon set in green. As it came in view He paused sud- 
denly, with a faint exclamation. Fortune had favored 
the tramp for a second time to-day. 

The silvery twilight gemmed with stars, and lit by a 
crescent moon, revealed every object in its soft brilliancy 
— the murmuring trees, the glancing ripples of the river, 
the reeds, the water-lilies, the yellow willows fringing its 
margm, and the lonely figure of a man — the only living 
creature in the landscape — standing still as a statue,, gaz- 
ing out over the glancing water lit by yon magic moon. 

“So,’’ said the tramp, under his breath, “I have run 
mv fox to earth at last ! Now, for the tug of war, now 
for a surprise, my great lord earl !” 

His feet made no sound on the greensward; he was at 
the great man’s elbow, unseen and unheard. 

“A fine evening, my Lord Clontarf ! Since when have 
you grown pastoral?” 

The Earl of Clontarf swung round and looked in blank 
amaze at this unexpected apparition. Side by side they 
stood in the starry twilight, a strange contrast. 

“Our tastes alter as we grow older,” pursued the tramp, 
transfixing the great earl with an unwinking stare. 
“Twenty years ago, if I remember right, Mr. Gerald Des- 
mond wasn’t given to star-gazing. It is a long time since 
we have met, my lord, and neither of us have altered, I 
am afraid, for the better.” 

“Who are you?” 

The cold, harsh voice of the peer expressed neither sur- 
prise nor alarm ; the rigid, bloodless, haughty face never 
moved a muscle. 

“An old friend, my lord — a friend who did you good 
service once. Eighteen years’ penal servitude may have 
greatly changed me, but not beyond your noble recogni- 
tion, I hope.” 

He took off his battered hat, and stood with the pearly 


Old Friends Meet. 129 

light of the young moon full upon his sunburned, fur- 
rowed, sinister face. 

“Do you know me, my lord?” 

The Earl of Clontarf eyed him with the supercilious 
disdain with which he might have regarded some mangy 
cur broken from his kennel. 

“Can’t say I do. You look like a villainous cockney 
attorney I used to see ‘ormerly in Ireland — a despicable 
scoundrel, transported for his rascally practices. I dare 
say you’re the same; there couldn’t be two such faces. 
You’re Morgan, the attorney, beyona a doubt.” 

“Yes, my lord,” the tramp said, with glaring eyes ; T’m 
Morgan, the attorney, returned from Norfolk Island ; and 
Morgan, the attorney, won’t stand any hard names from 
you! If you talk about ‘despicable scoundrels,’ there’s 
a pair of us, my lord earl !” 

The Earl of Clontarf mado one stride forward and 
seized the man before him in a mighty grip by the throat. 

“You dog! you transported thie?! Say another word 
like that to me, and I’ll fling your filthy carcass headlong 
into the river !” 

He released him so suddenly and violently that the 
tramp reeled backward, and only saved imself from fall- 
ing by grasping a tree. 

“You scoundrel !” the earl said, not altering that harsh 
voice of his, or that set, stony face, one whit ; “how dare 
you address jne? If you ever presume to do it again. 
I’ll have you horsewhipped out of the county!” 

He turned to go, but Morgan savagely interposed : 

“Not so fast, my lord ! You may be a very great man, 
but I know you ! I’m a miserable beggar, and you’re a 
rich nobleman. I have come to you for money, and must 
have it.” 

“Indeed ! How much do you want ?” 

He asked the question with a cold sneer, a derisive 
gleam in his evil eyes ; but Morgan answered, deter- 
minedly : 

“I want five hundred pounds — a trifle to you, a fortune 
to me. Your honor, your secret is worth more than 
that.” 

“What secret?” 

He stared blankly at Morgan as he asked the question. 


130 Rejected. 

Even that cool hand was staggered by the superior cool- 
ness of this master villain. 

“What secret?’’ he repeated, with a fierce, gasping 
laugh. “ Your lordship’s memory is of the shortest. You 
never bribed any one to swear away a life that stood 
between you and a title, did you ? Give me five hundred 
pounds — it’s but a small sum — and I’ll keep the secret to 
my graye^that I’ve kept for twenty years.” 

“Not five hundred pence, not five hundred farthings! 
Begone, you returned transport, or the servants shall kick 
you from the gates ! And hark ye, my hang-dog tramp, 
you evince all the symptoms of madness ; your words are 
the wildest of all wiki ravings. I am a very oharitable 
man, as you may have heard, and my influence is great. 
There is a private mad-house about twenty miles from 
here, and the patient who enters that mad-house had much 
better be nailed in his coffin- at once. Now, let me hear 
the faintest whisper ^of these delirious ravings of yours 
again, and five hours after you will be within the walls 
of that mad-house for life. I am going to the Hall now. 
I shall tell them there there is a dangerous lunatic loose 
in the grounds, and send the servants in search. If they 
find you here, look — to — yourself ! You know me of old, 
William Morgan!” 

He hissed the last words in his ear as he passed him, 
his gleaming eyes on fire. The tramp quailed from head 
to foot, and shrank before that baleful gaze. An instant 
later and the Earl of Clontarf had disappeared, and Mor- 
gan, the returned transport, stood alone, livid with fear 
and fury, under the glittering stars. 

CHAPTER VIII. 
reje)cte:d. 

There were theatricals at Royal Rest. The grand old 
manor was filled with guests — the long array of state 
chambers, empty the year round, were all occupied now, 
and valets and chamber-maids swarmed in the corridors 
and servants’ hall. Lovely ladies outshone one another 
in the lofty drawing-rooms night after night ; flirtations 
began in March last, in London, broken off abruptly when 


Rejected. 13 1 

the season closed, were resumed again, and with double- 
added force. Royal Rest was thronged with rank and 
fashion, and, to help amuse those languid and sated pleas- 
ure-seekers, a troupe of actors had been imported — the 
most celebrated comedian, the most bewitching little 
prima-dQnna of the day at their head. And to-night 
there was a ball, opening with a gay vaudeville, at Royal 
Rest. And five minutes before he went to play his suave 
and stately role of host, Trevannance stood alone in the 
domed picture-gallery, and gazed out over the darkening 
prospect, for a wonder very grave and thoughtful. It 
was not his way to look grave over many things ; life to 
him, like another celebrated philosopher, was a comedy of 
errors, to be laughed at ; and he seldom troubled himself 
to think very deeply on any subject; it was a bore. But 
in the gray gloaming of this chilly November day, he 
stood lost in thought — very grave and earnest thought, 
too. 

October had beamed itself *out in crimson and gold 
amid the woodlands, and melancholy November was with 
them, with its whistling winds, its beating rain, its low- 
lyings chill-gray sky, its weary sea-fog. Byj; life went 
very brightly at Royal Rest. Scores of old friends, good 
fellows all, rode and hunted and played billiards with him 
every day, and gossiped with him every night over the 
Manila and the nargile in the smoking-room ; and, better 
still, bright eyes grew brighter as he drew near, rosy lips 
smiled radiantly upon him, eyelids drooped, and gentle 
bosoms fluttered at the low, caressing words of the lord 
of Royal Rest. He had a long rent-roll — a longer pedi- 
gree ; his manners were simply perfection, and he was one 
of the handsomest men of the day. No wonder those 
silver-plumaged doves fluttered with delicious little thrills 
of hope and fear when this gorgeous oriole swept to their 
dove-cote; no wonder they hated with an intense and 
bitter depth of envy and malice and* all uncharitableness 
the violet-eyed beauty of old Castile who moved serenely 
among them, “queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.” 

And they had great cause : for, in this cold, gray No- 
vember twilight, as he stood here alone, Trevannance was 
debating within himself the question : 

“They leave for Italy next week ; they spend the winter 
in Rome. If I speak at all, I should speak to-night.” 


132 Rejected. 

Yes, the little golden-winged birds of paradise, belles 
all last season in crowded London drawing-rooms, had 
reason to tremble for the t^rize they hoped to win — Vivian 
Trevannance would ask Evelyn Desmond to be his wife. 
He had been her constant companion for the past two 
months — a whole lifetime down in the country — and that 
grand and uplifted beauty, who had dukes with fifty 
thousand a year at her feet, had condescended to be sweet 
and gracious to the lord of Royal Rest. There was al- 
wavs a smile to welcome him when he came ; she was ever 
ready to allow him to be her escort and cavalier on all 
occasions, for he was entertaining, and could talk to her 
as few men she met in society could talk. She was very 
gracious and very beautiful ; he was the envied of every 
m.an he knew. Her father looked bland approval. There 
could be little doubt what the answer would be when the 
momentous little question was asked ; and yet — oh, innate 
perversity of man !— there .was not the faintest thrill of 
rapture in the breast of Vivian Trevannance as he stood 
at the oriel window, with the dusky portraits of his dead- 
and-gone ancestors glooming down upon him from the 
wads. 

He must marry some time — it was the inevitable lot of 
man — as well now as later. He was very much in love, 
no doubt. Not with that fierce and frantic and desperate 
passion that some fellows get up, and which makes the 
stock in trade of Tennysons and Mussets and Merediths 
— not with that jealous, fiery, devouring, and altogether 
uncomfortable flame that scorches some impassioned and 
undisciplined hearts to cinders — but with a gentlemanly, 
well-bred love a la mode. She was beautiful and stately, 
and proud as a young queen — three very essential requis- 
ites in the future lady of Royal Rest; he was prepared 
to be a most devoted husband, as husbands go. No doubt 
they would be as happy a pair as ever made a sensation at 
St. George’s, Hanover Square. 

“And Amethyst and Rivers, and the Most Noble, the 
Marquis of Roc^-'silver, will very likely blow their brains 
out,” was the friendly wind-up of Mr. Trevannance’s 
cogitations. “Come weal, come woe, this night, my peer-; 
less Castilian Rose, the last of the house of Trevannance 
shall prostrate himself at thy imperial feet and hear his 
doom.” 


Rejected. 133 

The tragic gesture which wound up his soliloquy was 
worthy “Milord Brown-Smith” himself in the coming 
vaudeville. And then, with a “smile on his lip,” and 
looking especially handsome, and with the courteous 
grace of a prince, the lord of Royal Rest descended to 
meet and mingle with his guests. 

She was wondrously lovely to-night in her proud state- 
liness, her pale, delicate beauty, her patrician grace. Her 
perfumed laces floated soft and misty about her ; above 
her rich, gleaming silks her mother’s Spanish diamonds 
glimmered and rippled in the glowing light; the soft, 
abundant, jetty hair was drawn back off the veined tem- 
ples, and a diamond star shone above the low, classic 
brow. She was rarely lovely, and the dewy violet eyes 
beamed gently on the courteous and handsome lord of 
the manor, and the proud, curved lips smiled their bright- 
est as she listened to his low, caressing voice. Haughty, 
high-born bosoms throbbed with bitterest envy as she 
floated by on the arm of Vivian Trevannance, the long 
lashes falling, the stag-like head drooping ever so slightly 
under his gaze and words. 

She sat by his side during the vaudeville — a most 
laughable burlesque of “Milor’ Muggins’ Mishaps in 
Paris,” original and comical enough even to throw those 
sated listeners into uncontrollable laughter. And when 
the play ended, and they entered the long and lofty ball- 
room, resplendent with light, embowered with flowers, 
gorgeous with magnificent toilets, sparkling with lovely 
faces, she was still by his side, and he the most devoted 
lover that ever went mad for ladye faire. 

“Strephon and Phillis !” laughed the Countess Portici, 
as, later in the evening, he bent over her chair. “You 
act your part to the life, my friend. The arrows of 
Cupidon are sharp, my faith ! when shot from the blue 
eyes of la senorita, since even your chain-mail armor lias 
been pierced. And when are we to condole — mon Dieu! 
no, congratulate you, my boy?” 

Trevannance laughed. He saw well enough the spite- 
ful eye-flash of the dashing Italian coquette, and the sharp 
sarcasm under the laughing tone. But he lingered over 
her chair very contentedly ; she was pretty and brilliant, 
and amused him ; and although on the very verge, of a 
matrimonial proposal, Mr. Trevannance, like most of his 


134 


Rejected. 

sex, was not beyond being amused by another lady. He 
must speak to-night. The thought crossed him more 
than once with — tell it not in Gath ! — much the same sen- 
sation as, in his nursery days, the recollection of a dose 
of nauseous medicine loomed in perspective. And yet 
this high-born beauty was everything mortal man could 
seek in a wife. 

The ball whirled on — the “wee sma’ hours aypnd the 
twal’’ had come ; and out beyond all this glowing light 
and gorgeous profusion of flowers, this music and danc- 
ing and brilliant assemblage, a bleak, raw morning was 
breaking over the world, shrouded in mist, and bitter with 
wild, wailing wind. It was no easy matter for the host 
to monopolize the belle of the ball and bear her off to 
some secret spot, where he might fall at her feet and 
breathe his consuming passion. 

Fortune seemed to favor him at last. He had watched 
her glide away and vanish into a curtained recess down 
the long vista of drawing-rooms ; but Lady Clydesmore 
held him captive, and he listened to her airy chatter, and 
“smiled and smiled,’' and wished her most devoutly at — 
Joppa! And it was only when a long-haired, bearded 
poet came along — the latest lion in the literary menagerie 
— that she released her chafing serf, and permitted him 
to rush to his doom. She stood within the curtained 
arch. La Rose de Castile, but — not alone. Beside the 
tall, tropical plants— the gorgeous South American 
flowers — a man stood near her, whose face, poor wretch ! 
told the tale of his misery as surely as the face of some 
luckless Russian serf under the knout. 

Trevannance -never forgot that tableau vivant all his 
life long — the miserable day breaking without the deep 
Maltese window in rain and wind and gloom ; the toss- 
ing trees of the park ; the far-off ink-black sea ; the bell- 
ing of the deer under the beeches ; and within, the soft 
w^irmth, the rich light, the delicious music, the perfume 
: nd luxury, and those two figures — one draped in glitter- 
ing silks and laces and jewels, the haughty head droop- 
ing, the exquisite face pale, startled, sorrowful, and his 
grace of Amethyst, pallid with fruitless love and man’s 
unbearable pain. 

“For God’s sake. Lady Evelyn, don’t drive me mad! 
I can’t live without you — I can’t, by ” 


Rejected. 135 

“Oh, hush!” her voice was full of inanite compassion. 
“I am sorry. I tried to avoid this — I have foreseen this. 
Do not say another word. I am bitterly sorry you 
should have said this much.” 

“Then there is no hope?” poor Amethyst said, hol- 
lowly. 

Her answer was a gesture as she turned from him and 
looked out at the beating rain. 

“And it is for that fellow, Trevannance, I am re- 
jected !” the duke cried, hardly knowing, m his pain and 
passion, what he said. “A good enough fellow, no 
doubt ; but what is he, that you all are ready to throw 
over every other man for him?” 

“Your grace” — the slender figure was erect instantly, 
the violet eyes flashing with true Castilian fire — “the pain 
I have caused you gives you many privileges, but it gives 
you none to insult me !” 

And then, before he could uttet* even that remorseful 
“Oh, forgive me!” that haughty beauty had swept away 
like a young queen, and the Duke of Amethyst, with his 
fifty thousand a year and his lacerated heart, was left 
alone to stare blankly at the wretched dawn of the day. 
With a hollow groan he dropped down, his arms on the 
wide window-sill, his face on his arms, and lay there to do 
battle with his passionate pain. It had all passed in a 
minute — a minute during which Trevannance stood ir- 
resolute, eavesdropping unconsciously. Now he turned 
softly to go. 

“Poor devil !” he muttered, “he is hard hit ; and she — 
well, she’s only like the rest of her sex — cruel as death 
to the man who loves her best.” 

The ball ended, and its giver had not spoken. Lady 
Lvelyn had vanished ere he returned to the ball-room. 
Amethyst was beheld no more, and his wild, woe-begone 
face haunted Trevannance as though he had seen him 
slaiq before him in cold blood. But he rode over to 
Warbeck Hall next day, resolute to “do or die.” He had 
come of a daring race, and was as ready to lead a forlorn 
hope, or storm a breach, or meet a foe under the trees 
before breakfast with pistols or swords, or ask a lady to 
marry him as any of his fire-eating ancestors, since Nor- 
man William down. It was a gray, chill, and cheerless 
day, “ending in snow,” the dull, leaden sky lying on the 


136 Rejected. 

tree-tops, the raw sea wind complaining wretchedly, the 
damp piercing you through. 

But despite it all, she was out pacing up and down the 
marble terrace, wrapped in a vast crimson burnoose, a 
little velvet cap on her head, gazing out at the far sea 
line. 

He went straight to his doom, as the Sir Hugos and 
Sir Malises, in the portrait-gallery at Royal Rest, had 
gone, with complacent smiles on their lips, to Tower 
Hill ; and the face of cold surprise she turned on him in- 
timidated him no more than the ax and headsman had in- 
timidated those dauntless heroes. 

She was very pale in the bleak afternoon light, and the 
violet eyes looked dark and weary and melancholy. 
There was a tired expression in the beautiful face, a list- 
less slowness in her walk, a depth of mournfulness in her 
deep, solemn eyes. 

Perhaps his face told his errand, for she looked 
startled; perhaps his first abrupt words did — “Lady Eve- 
lyn, I have come to say good-by” — for she glanced 
round her for a second with a wild instinct of flight. 

But the belle of society could obey no untutored in- 
stincts ; the long lashes drooped over the azure eyes ; the 
pale face grew like marble ; she walked proudly and reso- 
lutely on. 

“Indeed !” she said, and the word dropped from her 
lips chilling as ice. “Then good-by, and bon voyage.” 

He had heard his doom. His handsome face paled, his 
teeth set, his. eyes flashed. She should hear him now, 
this intolerably haughty Castilian ! He faced her, very 
pale, resolute as death, and asked her to be his wife. She 
looked up at him full in the face for a moment, and dead 
silence fell between them. That clear, soulful, womanly 
gaze read him to the heart. Then her answer came, brief, 
freezing, indescribably proud 

“No!” . 

She turned to go as she said it, more haughtily than 
he had ever seen her before in his life. He ground his 
teeth under his beard, and his deep eyes' flashed. 

“You mean it. Lady Evelyn? There is no appeal?” 

“There is none.” 

“And yet I love you 1” 


Marriage of Convenience.^’ 137 

She smiled, a brief, chill, disdainful smile — her father’s 
own. 

“Do you?” she answered, with a slight foreign shrug. 
“Very likely. Mr. Trevannance has loved many women, 
or rumor strangely belies him.” 

“I never loved any woman well enough before to ask 
her to be my wife.” 

She bowed, that cold slight smile still on her face. The 
clear, violet eyes knew him' as he knew himself. 

“You have paid me a high compliment, then. Believe 
me, I am very grateful. And now, as I may not see you 
again, once more, adieu, and a pleasant voyage to — Cen- 
tral Africa, is it not?” 

She floated away with the most profound and. graceful 
of courtesies ; and if Sir Malise on Tower Hill, with his 
head on the block, and the mighty ax swinging in midair, 
felt anything like his last descendant, standing alone on 
the terrace, the feelings of that martyr to the Stuart’s 
cause were by no means to be envied. 

He broke into a laugh — a laugh that was loud, but not 
at all pleasant to hear. 

“I pitied poor Amethyst last night. By Jove! I’ll go 
and hunt the unlucky beggar up, and we’ll condole with 
one another — wrecked in the same boat. Misery loves 
company.” 

And then, whistling shrilly, and sbshing the trees with 
his riding-whip, the lord of Royal Rest rode home and 
wrote out a second telegram to his crony. Sir Foulke 
Mounteagle, in Vienna : 

“Dear Mount, — Meet me in London on the 15th. 
High time to go up the Nile. Trevannance.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“a marriage oe convenience.” 

There was a little room adjoining the library at War- 
beck Hall, s^’cred to that profound statesman, the Earl of 
Clontarf. Here he read and wrote his letters, undis- 
turbed by the gay life around him ; here he spent the chief 
part of each day until dinner. Two or three times a 


138 “A Marriage of Convenience.” 

week he paid his countess a ceremonious visit in her 
apartments, as a matter of domestic propriety; beyond 
that he rarely saw her, still less rarely thought of her. 
The one thing for which he lived now was political am- 
bition. The aim of his life was the advancement of his 
party. Even his affection for his daughter was second- 
ary to that. He was proud of her and fond of her. He 
wished her to marry the man of his choice, so that her 
husband might plunge, soul and body, into the political 
vortex, and become .a leader in the land, and he himself 
the progenitor of a long line of brilliant statesmen. This 
was why he looked so coolly on and saw her jilt his Grace 
of Amethyst. Politically, Amethyst was a brainless non- 
entity. This was chiefly why, also, he so ardently desired 
her union with Vivian Trevannance. The lord of Royal 
Rest was brilliantly talented, clever, and subtle — of the 
stuff eminent politicians are made. With him for his 
son and successor, Lord Clontarf looked exultingly for- 
ward to a dazzling future and the highest honors of the 
kingdom. 

This windy November afternoon, as he sat alone brood- 
ing over his papers and his ambitious projects, he saw 
Trevannance join Lady Evelyn on the terrace. The ten- 
der passion was a very old memory now with Gerald, 
Earl of Clontarf. Women had never been his weakness. 
He looked upon the whole sex with cynical disdain. 
They were useful tools, sometimes, in the hands of clever 
men. Woman's wit had been known ere now to further 
man’s bold ambition. But these were the exceptions — 
the Maria Theresas, the Queen Elizabeths, the Aspasias. 
As a whole, he regarded them with impatient, contemp- 
tuous disdain. 

But little as he knew how to fathom, with his political 
line and plummet, the sea of love, he could discern easily 
enough the devotion of Vivian Trevannance to his beau- 
tiful daughter. He would propose one of these days, and 
she would accept him, he thought, complacently ; and 
then he would take Trevannance in hand, and send him 
forth into the arena of statecraft, the most talented young 
leader of the times. 

Watching from his window this bleak afternoon, he 
saw the brief interview — saw its abrupt termination — saw 


“A Marriage of Convenience.’^ 139 

his daughter sweep majestically away, and saw in the face 
of Vivian Trevannance that he had been rejected. 

Rejected ! He had never dreamed of that. Men 
bowed to his every wish ; for the past ten years he had 
carried all before him with a high hand ; and now to have 
his darling project overset by the caprice of a shallow 
girl ! Amazement, incredulity, rage, swept alternately 
over the great earl’s face. 

“By heaven, she shall not refuse him!” he said, start- 
ing up and flinging open the study door. “Here, Eve- 
lyn, a word with you !” 

She was passing, in her slow, graceful way, down the 
domed and marbled hall. At the sound of her father’s 
voice she paused, and stood looking at him in quiet sur- 
prise. 

“Come into my study,” he said, briefly. “I have some- 
thing to say to you.” 

She bent her head and followed him in silence. If she 
wondered, her face did not show it. The instincts of her 
order were strong ui Lady Evelyn Desmond — her pale, 
proud face very rarely betrayed her. She was a little 
surprised all the same. There had been very little inti- 
macy or confidence ever between the earl and his only 
daughter. She had never loved her father, never even in 
her earliest infancy, whilst she regarded her mother 
with a passionate affection. It was part of his punish- 
ment, perhaps — it was certainly no fault of hers — she was 
honestly shocked at herself, and did her best ; but her best 
was a failure. She had no affection whatever for her 
father ; and her remorse at that very lack of affection 
made her doubly anxious to obey him in the smallest 
matter. It is true, he had rarely exacted any obedience 
from her; he was the most indulgent of parents; but had 
he been the tyrannical old despot of the melodrama, she 
would have yielded her will to his in almost all things, 
through her strong sense of duty. 

He placed a chair for her now with grave courtesy. 
She bowed with equal gravity and took it, quietly pre- 
pared to listen. He resumed his own seat by the writing- 
table, and broached his business at once. 

“I saw Vivian Trevannance with you on the terrace 
yonder, five minutes ago, my daughter. I can guess 
what his errand was. He asked you to be his wife?” 


140 “A Marriage of Convenience.’’ 

She colored faintly, and bent her head in assent. 

“And you consented?” 

“No, papa ; I declined.” 

“Ah ! you declined ? And why?” 

The faint rose-light dawned in her face again, the violet 
eyes drooped. 

“I suppose one should love the man one marries. I 
do not love Mr. Trevannance.” 

“Oh !” the earl said, with a cynical sneer, “you don’t 
love Mr. Trevannance ! Sentimental, certainly, but not 
satisfactory. I presume you don’t love any one else?” 

“No, papa.” 

The drooping face lifted proudly, the violet eyes met 
his full. 

My Lord Clontarf rather shrank from the gaze of those 
singularly beautiful and brilliant eyes ; they reminded^im 
uncomfortably of other eyes, sealed forever on earth. 

“Then I think Mr. Trevannance has great cause of 
complaint. You certainly have encouraged him. He 
has been your constant companion, your favored attend- 
ant, during the past six weeks, to the exclusion of all 
others; and at the last you reject him! I thought Lady 
Evelyn Desmond was too proud to stoop to coquetry.” 

“I am no coquette.” 

But she colored painfully as she said it, with a con- 
scious sense of guilt. 

“No? It would be coquetry in any one else, then. 
Have you any especial aversion to Vivian Trevannance?” 

“No.” 

“He is wealthy, clever, accomplished, handsome — all 
any girl could desire ; you love no one else, and you have 
no aversion to him ; then, my dear, you shall marry the 
lord of Royal Rest.” 

“Papa 

“My daughter, I have intended it from the first — set 
my heart upon it. I did not speak of it before, because I 
thought of your own free will, without any interference 
of mine, you would choose him. You have not seen fit 
to do so, therefore it is high time I should step in and 
proclaim my wishes.” 

“Papa,” Lady Evelyn said, growing very pale, “you 
should have spoken sooner. It is too late now. I have 
refused him.” 


‘‘A Marriage of Convenience.’^ 14 1 

“Not in the least too late, my dear. A young lady’s 
first ‘no’ means nothing, as so clever a fellow as Tre- 
vannance fully understands. He shall speak again, and 
you shall say ‘yes.’ ” 

She sat still as death, pale as death, in her chair, her 
hands folded, her eyes fixed on the cold November sky, 
on the worried trees rocking in the high autumnal gale. 

“As for love and that sort of thing, it is very pretty in 
little books bound in blue and gold ; and one likes to hear 
of ‘two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that 
beat as one,’ from a box in the grand tier of Her Ma- 
jesty’s; but in real life, my dear, it isn’t practicable. Mr. 
Trevannance is sincerely attached to you, I am positive, 
very proud of you. and will be as devoted after marriage 
as is consistent with public duties ; and you will esteem 
him and do honor ":o his choice, and be as happy as is at 
all necessary or customary. It is an eminently suitable 
match.” 

Was it a smile th^t dawned* so faintly over the pale, 
proud face as she listened, a smile like the reflection of his 
own — cold, disdainful, cynical? But she never spoke; 
she sat still as stone. 

“In the land where you were born, in the convent 
where you were educated, young girls are not permitted 
to choose in these matters for themselves. Their parents 
or guardians do it for them. You have seen your com- 
panions taken from their convent-school to the bridal- 
altar, without any option on their part, and thought it all 
right. It is your turn now.” 

Still blank silence. Pale and cold she sat, rigid as 
marble, her eyes fixed on that lowering sky, that dreary, 
darkening prospect. 

“I have seldom interfered with you, Evelyn, or asserted 
my paternal authority before. I do most emphatically 
assert it now. You must promise me to marry Vivian 
Trevannance.” 

Sne turned and looked at him ; once again his eyes 
shifted and fell before hers. 

“Do you want me to go to him and offer myself, papa? 
I see no other way in which my mistake of to-day is to be 
rectified.” 

“Nonsense! of course not. .Rest easy; he shall repeat 
his proposal.” 


The Rescue. 


142 

‘‘At your instigation? Rather humiliating, is it not?” 

“My clear Evelyn, this part of the business need not 
concern you. Trust to me. Your maidenly delicacy 
shall be remembered and respected. Yet Vivian Tre- 
vannance shall repeat his proposal.” 

She rose slowly. 

“Have you anything more to say? May I go?” 

“You have not answered me yet, Evelyn.” 

“There can be but one answer. I will obey you.” 

“That is my good girl ! And I have not made you un- 
happy? You are pale and cold as a statue.” 

He spoke a little wistfully. In his hard, cruel, selfish 
heart there was one pure and tender place, and his daugh- 
ter held it. 

Her cold, passionless look and tone never altered. 

“You have not made me unhappy. I can only regret 
you did not say all this sooner. You knew I would obey 
you.” 

She turned proudly to go, but he drew her to him and 
kissed her white brow. 

“God bless you, Evelyn, and make you happy !” 

But that “God bless you” stuck in his th.roat like Mac- 
beth’s VAmen.” 

And as he uttered the benediction, Rory Desmond’s 
cloudless blue eyes looked up at him from his child’s 
face. With a sort of groan he pushed her from him, 
sank down in his seat, and covered his face with his 
hands. 

There are other punishments for the shedder of blood 
besides the hangman and the halter. 

She glided from the room, and up to her own apart- 
ments. There she closed herself in — even her mother and 
her attendant were shut out — and the maiden was alone 
with the prospective dawming of that new life in which 
she was to become the wife. 


CHAPTER X. 

RE:SCUf:. 

The Countess of Clontarf very rarely left those pleas- 
ant apartments in the sunny southern wdng of Warbeck 
Hall, fitted luxuriously up for her use. 


The Rescue. 


143 

She glided uncomplainingly away into confirmed in- 
validism, without seeking to know what ailed her. 
Chronic melancholy was the chief of her disease, per- 
haps, and no physician in her day any more than in Lady 
Macbeth’s could minister to a mind diseased. But my 
Lady Clydesmore, an imperious young despot in petti- 
coats, came sometimes to these apartments and whisked 
the invalid peeress off, willy-nilly, for a drive in her own 
pony-phaeton. The pale, weak countess had little strength 
or energy left to resist the pretty, impetuous whirlwind, 
and yielded, because yielding was easier than resisting. 

She found presently that these enforced drives rather 
did her good, and so they grew to be a matter of course. 

In the yellow sunshine of the November afternoon, the 
phaeton, with a pair of high-stepping ponies, stood before 
the grand portico entrance, awaiting the coming of the 
two peeresses. 

It was two days after that memorable interview on the 
marble terrace, and the weather had greatly changed since 
then. It was what in America is called the ‘Tndian sum- 
mer,”; and the sunshine was warm and mellow, the sky 
blue and brilliant, and the fresh, saline breath of old 
ocean, sleeping far off in golden ripples, deliciously in- 
vigorating. 

The two ladies came sweeping out presently, pretty 
Lady Clydesmore in the daintiest of driving costumes, the 
fragile Spanish countess robed in black from head to foot, 
her pallid, moonlight beauty looking quite startling by 
contrast. She leaned on her companion’s arm, moving 
slowly and wearily. 

“Where’s Evelyn ?” she asked. 

“EVelyn.is not coming,” Lady Clydesmore answered. 
“Don’t you know she plays Lady Bountiful in the parish ? 
My duty, I suppose, but she does it; and she has gone 
to write a letter for some old Goody or Gaffer to a son in 
the United States. By the by, she has been as solemn as 
a ch'urch-yard the past two days. What do you suppose 
is the matter?” 

Lady Clydesmore looked keenly at her companion as 
she asked the question; but the still, pale face of the 
countess told nothing. 

“Evelyn is never very gay,” she said, quietly. 

“No — but Well, perhaps it is only a fancy of 


The Rescue. 


144 

mine, after all. Apropos of nothing, Trevannance is off 
again. His father must play host at Royal Rest. What 
restless beings these men are I” 

“Ah! I don’t know Mr. Trevannance. Where does he 
go? 

“Up the Nile, down the Niger, across the Amazon — 
*any where, anywhere out of the world I’ We shall miss 
him horribly — the only man I know who talks to me, 
and can talk, without platitudes or compliments hack- 
neyed and old as the hills. Pity he don’t marry. As 
Thackeray’s old dowager Lady -Kew says, ‘A man like 
that should live at his places, and be an example to his 
people.’ But they won’t. He leaves to-night, and I am 
— sorry.” 

The countess said nothing; she understood her friend, 
and was sorry, too, perhaps. They both knew intuitively 
that Lady Evelyn had refused him, and that was why he 
was off “up the Nile and down the Niger.” 

They had left the park gates far behind them, and were 
bowling along the most delightful of high-roads, the wav- 
ing trees on either hand arching overhead, and forming 
a long natural avenue. The steppers were wonderful 
beauties to “go,” spirited if you like, but kindly and 
well in hand, and bowled along over the broad, rolling 
road, swift and smooth, when suddenly — it was the most 
abrupt and tragic thing conceivable — a man leaped out 
from among the trees and fired one, tv/o, three shots in 
quick succession from a revolver. Before the report of 
the last had died away he had vanished. The first shot 
missed ; the second raked the flank of the off-vLeeler ; 
the third whizzed over the head of the Countess of Clon- 
tarf, within an inch of her temple; and the ponies, with 
wild snorts of pain and rage and terror, were off and 
away like the wind. 

The shots were heard. A party of gentlemen far in the 
rear — Lord Clydesmore, Lord Clontarf, General Trev- 
annance and his son — set spurs to their horses and gal- 
loped furiously in the direction. But a far-off, mighty 
cloud of dust was all that remained of the pony-phaeton, 
and a man, standing all agape under the trees, the onlv 
living thing visible. 

“What is it, my man ? Who fired those shots ?” shout- 
ed General Trevannance. 


The Rescue. 145 

The man turned ; he was a country rustic, who took 
off his hat to the gentry and made a clumsy bow before 
he answered: 

“I dunno, zur; but there be leddies in yon coach, and 
t 'orses ha’ bro-ak mad loike and runned away and t’ 
mouth o’ Hell Pit it be open, zur, and ” 

But they heard no more. With a cry of horror, Trev- 
annance spurred his horse madly on, shouting, frantically : 

“It is Lady Clydesmore’s pony-phaeton, and Hell Pit 

shaft is open, and For heaven’s sake, ride for your 

lives !” 

His last words came wafted on the wind; he was far 
ahead already. He knew what the man’s words meant; 
the old, disused mining-ground lay straight before them, 
and sudden death held reign there. 

They followed him as rapidly as they could, but his 
liorse flew like the wind. Ahead, the racing ponies tore 
on their way straight to that awful place. 

“Oh, God, it is too late !” Lord Clydesmore gasped, 
sick and dizzy with horror. “And Beatrice is there !” 

The strong man closed his ^yes for an instant, faint 
as a woman on the verge of swooning. 

A great shout aroused him. He spurred his charger 
furiously on, and there stood Vivian Trevannance at the 
horses’ heads. He had hurled himself off his own ani- 
mal, and like, lightning grasped the ponies’ heads, at the 
risk of almost certain trampling to death. They were on 
the very verge of the old, disused shaft. He held them in 
his mighty grasp, while they tore and plunged and reared 
and almost dragged his arms from their sockets. But 
it was only for five seconds; the other men were upon 
them^ and they were mastered. 

Trevannance,- with his hands all torn and bleeding, was 
the first to approach the phaeton. The Countess of Clon- 
tarf lay back in a dead swoon ; but the high courage of 
Lord Clydesmore’s wife had upheld her through all. She 
was pale as death, but as still. 

“My darling!” her husband cried. “Oh, Beatrice! my 
love ! my wife !” 

She held out her arms to him with an hysterical sob, 
and he lifted her from the carriage. Trevannance did 
tlie same for Lady Clontarf, her husband looking quietly 
on. 


The Rescue. 


146 

“She has fainted,” he said, calmly. “Better so. A nar- 
row escape, my dear Lady Clydesmore. I rather think 
you owe your Iffe to Vivian here. Ha ! the ponies wound- 
ed, bleeding! How is this?” 

Lady Clydesmore told her startling tale. The four 
men listened aghast. 

“Fired a revolver three times in succession! Good 
heavens! Lady Clydesmore, who was this man?” asked 
General Trevannance. 

“I had but a glimpse of him. He looked like a beggar 
or tramp — a wretched object. But he vanished as quickly 
as he came.” 

There was one among her listeners who turned white 
as he listened. Surely, the Earl of Clontarf knew this 
mysterious assailant. 

“It must have been a madman, an escaped lunatic,” he 
said, decidedly, “No one else would perpetrate such an 
outrage. We must search for him presently. Our busi- 
ness now is to convey these ladies home. Vivian, I wish 
you would ride forward and prepare them at Warbeck 
Hall.” 

“But, Mr. Trevannance,” Lady Clydesmore interposed, 
“your hands are frightfully wounded. See how they 
bleed ! Oh, you must not ” 

“Mere scratches, dear Lady Clydesmore,” Trevannance 
interposed, lightly, as he leaped into the saddle; “not 
worth a thought. I will ride on, as the earl suggests, 
and prepare them at the Hall.” 

Fie was gone as he spoke, leaving the party behind 
to follow at their leisure. He reached the Hall, saw the 
housekeeper, informed her of the accident, and inquired 
for Lady Evelyn Desmond. Lady Evelyn, attended by 
her maid, had gone to the village after luncheon to visit 
some of her poor pensioners, and had not yet returned. 

“If she does return before her mother, break the news 
to her gently,” Trevannance said. “The countess is not 
in the least injured, only frightened. It will not do to 
alarm Lady Evelyn needlessly.” 

He departed again and rode homeward. To tell the 
truth, his hands were badly lacerated, his arms stiff and 
painful, and half wrenched from their sockets. 

“Flow coolly my Lord of Clontarf took it !” he thought. 
“I fancy he would not have lost an hour’s sleep though 


The Rescue. 


147 

those rampaging brutes had hurled his fair, pale countess 
straight to the bottom of Hell Pit. Confound the savage 
little ponies ! I shall be in a pretty condition for travel- 
ing to-morrow 

Once at home and his wounds dressed, however, he 
went on with his preparations for immediate departure, 
riis valet was to precede him to town by the night ex- 
press, he himself to go by the early parliamentary train 
on the morrow. 

“And as I will have no time in the morning, I must 
ride over this evening to say good-by, and see how the 
ladies got on after their fright. Will that disdainful 
little beauty, the Castilian Rose, deign to say adieu once 
more, I wonder? The earl would have me repeat my 
proposal, I fancy; but Pm not quite so badly done for as 
that. My lady has said no, and though she were twice 
as lovely, no it must remain. 

“ Tf she be not fair for me. 

What care I how fair she be ?’ ” 

So when the white dusk of the November moon sailed 
high in the cold, blue ether, Trevannance remounted and 
rode over to Warbeck Hall. He did not enter the draw- 
ing-room ; on his way he passed the library; only the 
moonlight lit the long lofty room; only one figure occu- 
"pied it, and obeying some impulse altogether beyond his 
control, Trevannance went in. 

Through painted windows the silvery light gleamed, 
falling in long spears of gold and purple and crimson 
on the oaken floor. At one lofty casement, gazing out at 
the niglit, Rady Evelyn Desmond stood. Her blue silk 
dinner-dress trailed the floor; a rich white rose gleamed 
in the silky masses of her dark hair. The lovely face was 
as colorless as that snowy rose. She stood like some ex- 
quisite statue — marble white, marble cold. 

At the sound of the rapid footsteps on the oaken floor, 
she glanced around and saw the man of whom she had- 
been thinking — the man who had saved her mother's life 
at the risk of his own. Her own life, saved ten times 
over, would not have awakened half the gratitude she 
felt now. 

As their eyes met, a faint carnation hue arose over the 


The Rescue. 


148 

exquisite face, and the violet eyes that had so lately 
flashed upon him, full of haughty pride and rebuke, fell. 

“Do 1 intrude. Lady Eveiynr ’ 'Irevannance asked, 
lightly, all unconscious of what was passing in that dis- 
turbed heart, “i have come to inquire after the Ladies 
Clontarf and Clydesmore, and seeing, you here, made bold 
to venture in. 1 trust I have not disturbed you?” 

“You have not disturbed me,” she answered, slowly, 
and with difficulty. 

“And your mother? I hope her fright has done her 
no serious harm ?” ^ 

“I hope not — I think not. She seemed quite restored 
and cheerful when I left her, half an hour ago. She 
would like to see you, I think, and thank you for the 
inestimable service you have rendered her. Words are 
poor and weak on such occasions as these. What can I 
say, except thank you, Mr. Trevannance, from the bot- 
tom of my heart, for saving my motherls life?” 

She held out both hands to him, with a sudden, impas- 
sioned gesture, tears standing in the bright blue eyes. 

Deeply touched, Trevannance bent over those little 
hands and kissed them. In all her brilliant beauty she 
had never looked so lovely, so sweet, so near as now. 

“Not another word of thanks, dear Lady Evelyn! You 
make me feel like an impostor, for I did nothing, after 
all. My part was the merest trifle. Thank Heaven we 
were in time!” 

“Your hands are wounded,” she said, quickly. “Oh, 
do not deny it ! Lady Clydesmore told me. They are not 
very painful, I trust?” 

Trevannance laughed. 

“Two or three scratches, and they are just the least 
in the world stiff and uncomfortable, but so trifling that 
not even your kindness nor Lady Clydesmore’s can mag- 
nify me into a wounded hero. It was a very mysterious 
and terrible thing, and might have had a frightful end- 
ing. I hope they will find the mad perpetrator of the 
deed. You must make my excuses to the countess. Lady 
Evelyn. I had better not disturb her to-night, and to- 
morrow I leave by the earliest train. Will you wish me 
good-by and God-speed here? I shall remain but a few 
minutes in the drawing-room.” 

His words were light, and there was a smile on his face 


The Rescue. 


149 

as he bent his tall head deferentially above her ; but never 
before had he been so near truly loving the Rose of Cas- 
tile as in this hour, when he resigned her forever. The 
sting of defeat was bitter, and all “blessings brighten as 
they take their flight.” She had refused him, and how 
beautiful, how queenly, how peerless she was ! 

“Then you really go?” , 

She spoke the words lowly and hurriedly, her heart 
throbbing as it had never throbbed before, her eyes dim 
with hot mist, her face averted. He looked at her with 
wonder and strange, wild hope. ' 

“I really go, unless — oh. Lady Evelyn, unless you bid 
me stay!” 

“Stay!” 

She stretched forth one hand to him, the other cover- 
ing her drooping face. The word was almost a sob. It 
cost this proudest of all beauties a great deal to stoop 
even so little from her high estate. 

“Lady Evelyn!” Trevannance cried, strangely moved. 
“Do you mean it? Will you love me? Will you be my 
wife?” 

“If you still wish it — yes !” 

“If I still wish it ! Evelyn ! Evelyn !” 

He would have clasped her in his arms, but she shrank 
away, with a swift, sudden motion that held him olf. 

“No! no! no! Spare n.e! Oh, Mr.' Trevannance, do 
not deceive yourself— do not deceive me! We do not 
love each other, and — you know it !” 

“As Heaven hears me, Evelyn, I love you better than 
I ever loved woman before!” 

Which was true enough, perhaps, for the loves of 
Vlviau Trevannance, heretofore, had never lost him one 
hour’s sleep, never cok him one heart-pang. They had 
been as brief and as bright as the sunshine of a summer 
day — airy little flirtations that whiled away the idle hours 
of an idle man. 

She had drawn herself away from him, and stood look- 
ing wistfully out on the moonlit sky. He stood by her 
side, tender and deferential, but still — 

. “I want to believe you,” she said, slowly. “I will be- 
lieve you, although there are those who say : Tt is not in 
Vivian Trevannance to be true to any woman!’ For me, 
I esteem you, I respect you, I like you ; but for that love 


The Rescue. 


150 

of which I have read and heard so much — no, Mr. Tre- 
vannance, I do not feel toward you like that.’’ 

“It will come in time,” he whisoered. “It shall be the 
aim of my life to win it. Such love as mine must bring 
a return.” 

“I am quite frank with you, you see,” Lady Evelyn 
went steadily on. “The day may come when I will love 
you dearly. There is no_ reason why it should not. Per- 
haps I am cold and passionless, and different from others 
of m}^ sex. I do not know. But of this I am certain : 
that, as your plighted wife, your honor and happiness will 
be dearer to me than my life. No suffering nor sorrow 
can ever come to you that I will not feel in my inmost 
heart. I will think of you ; I will pray for you ; I will 
trust you. I will make you happy, if I can.” 

The deep, dark eyes looking up at him — so solemn — 
so strangely sweet. To the eyes of Trevannance her face 
was as the face of an angel, and he — oh ! how little of the 
angelic he had to give her in return ! His heart smote 
him strangely, as though, in taking this white rose to his 
bosom and making it wholly his own he did her a deep 
and cruel wrong. 

“My dearest,” he said, kissing again the slender white 
hand, “you are an angel of whom I am altogether un- 
worthy! Of my happiness there can be no doubt. I am 
far happier now than I deserve. But I will try and be- 
come worthy of you — worthy the fairest and most spot- 
less bride man ever won !” 

And then there was silence between them, while the 
silver moon sailed up and the earth lay still under the 
frosty stars. 

“I have a favor to ask of you.” she said, presently, “a 
strange request — an unkind one, perhaps. But you will 
grant it, I know.” 

“You can ask nothing I will not grant, unless it be to 
— resign yourself.” 

“Well, it is not quite so bad as that,” smiling. ^Tt is 
only that you will not alter your plans for this. Go to- 
morrow, as you have intended. Give me time to get 
used to my new position. In writing to you — in hearing 
from you — in following you in spirit in your wanderings 
— the unpleasant strangeness I feel now will wear off, 
and when you return, I will be able to meet you and greet 


The Rescue. 


151 

you as your betrothed wife should. You will obey me 
in this?’^ 

“In everything— in all things — my liege lady! It is a 
little cruel ; but it shall be precisely as you say. To-night 
I Vvull see your father; to-morrow I depart, to be absent 
half a year. When I return there must be no delay. My 
Southern R-Ose must be my wife.” 

She caught her breath, flushing hotly; but she smiled 
up in his face bravely, and gave him her hand. 

“And now let us say farewell. I must go back to 
mamma. Good-by, Vivian, and God-speed.” 

She fluttered away from him with the words on her 
lips, and out of the room. And so this odd wooing and 
winning was over, and the Rose of Castile stood plighted 
to be his wife. 

Trevannance lingered for a few moments by the win- 
dow, like a man in a dream. He had won at last and 
he could hardly analyze his own sensations as he re- 
alized it. • 

“The union of angels and mortals was forbidden in 
Judea, long ago,” he thought; “perhaps that’s why I 
don’t feel the proper amount of rapture now. She’s as 
beautiful and as perfect as it is possible for fallen human 
nature to be ; but I am so very far from perfection that 
an uncomfortable gulf will always yawn between us, I 
fear. I’m a very happy man, and a very lucky and en- 
viable fellow be3^ond doubt, though I haven’t properly 
realized m}’- bliss as yet, and I have sown my wild oats, 
and will settle down into a model married man, and go in, 
for the future, for the mildest and properest sort of 
kitchen gardening. And now for my father.” 

The^Earl.of Clontarf, half an hour after, was closeted 
with Mr. Trevannance in his study. It was an eminently 
satisfactory interview, and they parted with the utmost 
cordiality. Then, Trevannance sought out Lord and 
Lady Clydesmore, and said good-by, and departed. 

N^xt morning the early train whirled him away on the 
first stage of that unknown journey — whirled him blind- 
fold away to his fate. He sat, and placidly perused the 
Times, whistling as a sort of accompaniment “The Girl 
I Left Behind Me” — going straight to his, doom. 


PART THIRD. 


CHAPTER I. 

"the red queen." 

"Good-night, Migonnette!" 

"Good-night, little queen !" 

"Good-night, and pleasant dreams, Red Queen!" 

It was the ward of a public hospital, the hour close 
upon twilight, the time early spring, the scene St. Louis. 

The lengthy hospital wards were filled with sufferers, 
and for each of them she had a kind word, who tripped 
so lightly down the long aisle. Dull eyes brightened, 
weary, throbbing heads lifted, hands stretched forth, 
parched lips opened to bid her good-night. They all 
knew her ; they all loved her — the tenderest of nurses, the 
most patient of scribes. Every one of these hospital pa- 
tients knew "Th«- Red Queen." , 

See her as she trips so fleetly and so jauntily down the 
long ward, with the last golden gleam of the April sun- 
set bright on her darkling, sparkling face, and great, 
shining .black eyes. She is as darkly handsome as some 
old Salvator or Murillo painting — the oval face, duskily 
olive ; the long, lazy Andalusian eyes, black, liquid, fiery, 
or melting, as you like; the thick, silky, curly crop of 
jetty hair, growing in little kinky rings over the low 
brow, all cut short like a boy^s ; the lips and chin simply 
perfect, dimpled, rosy, sweet; and her cheek — 

"Her cheek is like a Catherine pear, 

The side that’s next the sun." 

A little, lithe, supple figure, an airy dress, all crimson 
and black, a black velvet cap, with a scarlet feather set 
jauntily like a boy’s on the crisp black rings of hair at 
the right side. That is Red Queen, otherwise Migon- 
nette, otherwise Minnette, the actress. 


‘‘The Red Queen. 


153 

There were ah manner of stories afloat about the little 
black-eyed beauty, v/ho smoked rose-scented cigarettes, 
rode across country like a bird, shot like a rifleman, with 
revolver or carbine, danced like a Parisian premiere dan- 
sense, sang like a wood-lark, chattered French like a little 
grisette, and spoke English perfectly, with the most de- 
licious little accent in the world. She was a. charming 
actress, the most fascinating of stage coquettes, the most 
irresistible of femmes de chambre and soubrettes, and ut- 
terly bewitching in silk tights and slashed doublet, as a 
court page v/ith plumed hat on head, and slim rapier at 
her side. 

On the stage or off the stage the Red Queen was be- 
wildering. Every one knew her for the brightest, the 
merriest, the prettiest little dark fairy alive. Further 
than that, all about her was of the most shadowy and de- 
lusive. She had first made her appearance in a third- 
rate New York theater, in the role of soubrette, and that 
first appearance was a decided hit. The frequenters of 
the third-rate. East-side theatre, began to look eagerly for 
the little saucy brunette face and big black eyes, the pretty 
little dances, the sweet little songs. 

Then all at once Minnette was whisked away to a cer- 
tain stylish Broadway house, and made her debut as La 
Reine Rouge, in the most delightful of little three-act 
dramas written expressly for her, and which, as you 
know, ran nearly one hundred nights, and made Minnette 
famous. 

But who she was, or where she came from, or what 
her- name might be, no one knew — no, not the manager, 
not her most intimate friend, not her most impassioned 
adorer. For, of course she had adorers, this dashing, 
pretty girl of seventeen, more than you would care to 
count, and she took their bouquets, and declined more 
costly gifts, and listened to their protestations with black, 
dancing eyes of fun, and made them a stage courtesy, and 
said : ‘'No, thank you, monsieur I” to one and all. She 

was really the eighth wonder of the world — so young, so 
handsome, so reckless and full of frolic, and yet so 
shrewdly sensible and so invulnerable to the arrows of the 
little blind god. 

One needed but look once into the piquant, saucy, pretty 


154 “The Red Queen.” 

face to swear by her ever after, as the most bewitching* 
fairy on earth. 

The Red Queen was an especially privileged person in 
the St. Louis hospital, coming and going at her own 
sweet will. 

She was attached to her profession — to the doublet and 
rapier, and jaunty stage swagger; the dancing and sing- 
ing, and so forth, and was nightly showered with bou- 
quets and vociferous applause. 

But eyery day she was among her favored patients, 
with fruits and flowers, and ice and dainties, and soothing 
words and tender smiles, and patient nursing, writing 
long letters to friends at home, reading aloud, singing if 
they chose — as devoted, as tender, as sweet as any Sister 
of Charity. She was a living riddle, a brilliant, sparkling 
stream, with the sunshine ever rippling on its surfase, 
but with depths below that no line or plummet of all her 
friends had sounded yet. Her secret was her secret still. 
Not one of those who had known her for months and 
yeafS knew more of her than you know now. She tripped 
away to the end of the ward, her hands thrust into her 
sash, the black cap, with its crimson plume, set jauntily 
on the crisp curls. She looked like a saucy boy— an au- 
daciously saucy boy — yet a woman’s heart beat brightly 
under her dainty bodice — a heart that of late had been 
mutinous and rebellious, and not at all the well-trained 
little organ hitherto. She had nursed a certain dark-eyed 
hero from the very jaws of death. That was nothing; 
she had nursed scores; but the great, luminous brown 
eyes of this especial patient floated strangely before 
Mignonnette, in the golden noontide, in the black mid- 
night, and a soft, slow voice, very sweet, very eloquent, 
rang ever in her ears like distant music. 

When, night after night, she came, saucy and bright, 
before an enthusiastic audience, the big, black, eyes 
flashed first of all to a certain box, where one face in- 
variably showed ; when bouquets were literally showered 
upon their pet and their favorite, the most brilliant ex- 
otics were neglected for some tiny bunch of violets or 
rosebuds, if his hand flung them. 

And IMinnette knew the symptoms of her complaint 
perfectly well, and grew bitter and restive, and angrily 
impatient with herself for her folly. 


^‘The Red Queen.’’ 


155 

^‘Ah, bah \” she would say, scowling at her own visage 
in the glass. “What a little fool you are ! Hadn’t you 
sworn to hate all mankind, for her sake? Don’t you 
know, you little imbecile, that they are all alike, false, 
treacherous, selfish, and cruel as death? Haven’t you 
been sensible all along until now, and are you going to 
make an idiot of yourself because this ‘languid swell’ has 
handsome eyes and pays you compliments ? An English- 
man, too — and you doubly bound to hate all English- 
men ! Bah ! Mignonnette, you little simpleton ! I’m 
ashamed of you ! Let him see your folly, and be served 
as your mother was before you !” 

So Mignonnette guarded her secret with fierce jeal- 
ousy, disgusted with herself, and would have been tom 
to pieces by wild horses before she would give him — this 
particular him — one encouraging word, or look, or smile. 

On this bright April evening she was on her way to a 
certain patient of htrs, whose right leg had been blown off 
by an explosion, and who was otherwise so seriously in- 
jured that the chances of his recovery were as ten to one. 
He lay — the last of a long, long row, the amber glitter of 
the sunset lighting his bloodless, pain-drawn face — 
awfully still and corpse-like. 

“Mike,” the little Amazon said, bending over him, “I 
have come at last. I tried to be here sooner, but there 
were so many poor patients who had a word to sav to me 
that I could not. And how is it with you now?” 

The haggard face brightened, the dulled eyes lit up. 

“Ah, little queen, I knew you would come ! God bless 
that tender heart that never forgets one of us! You’ll 
write a ^letter for me, mam’selle, to my poor old mother 
in Ireland?” 

“Certainly, Mike, with pleasure — as many letters as 
you please, until you are able to write yourself. That 
will be soon, I am confident. What shall I say?” 

“W,ell, you see, mam’selle, it’s an old story, and a long 
story, and it’s more about another than myself. It’s 
about a young nobleman, whose life I saved twenty years 
ago. The old mother nursed him, Mignonnette, and he 
was as dear to her as the apple of her eye. I’ve kept the 
story to myself by his orders for twenty years ; but now, 
when I’ve one leg in the grave, it’s time I made a clean 
breast of it. I saved Lord Roderick Desmond’s life, 


“The Red Queen.” 


156 

mam’selle — from the hangman first, and from the devil’s 
own limb after, his cousin Gerald. It’s a long story, 
mam’selle, but I want you to tell the mother the whole 
thing, so I know you’ll listen.” 

“I’ll listen with pleasure, Mike. Go on.” 

“Well, little queen,” the sick man said, “it’s twenty 
years ago, as I told you, that I returned home to Clontarf, 
after a long voyage, mate of the ‘Dancing Dervish.’ The 
first news I heard upon landing was about the worst news 
I could hear — that my foster-brother, Lord Roderick 
Desmond, only son of the Earl of Clontarf, was in prison, 
condemned to death for the murder of a little cottage girl, 
Kathleen O’Neal. He was innocent, of course. I knew 
it as well then as I do now, and I swore a mighty oath 
I would free him, or die with him. 

“Well, mam’selle, I kept that oath. I freed him from 
prison. I took him to a lonely place on the seashore and 
left him there, while I went for a boat to’ take him to the 
‘Dancing Dervish.’ On my way I met his cousin Gerald 
Desmond — a lawyer, and the blackest devil alive! 

“But I thought him his friend, and so did Lord Rod- 
erick himself, and I told him what had happened, and 
begged h.im to go to his cousin, while I brought the boat. 

“He v/ent — the cowardly cut-throat ! — and what passed 
between them I never knew. Only as I rounded the point 
and came in sight of the cliff where I had left Lord Rory, 
I saw two men struggling in a death-grip. I heard the 
report of a pistol. Then one tumbled backward into the 
sea. and the other fled like a madman from the spot. 

“I rowed with all my might, mam’selle, and I reached 
the place as the body arose. He was not dead ; he was 
not even senseless. He was badly wounded : but the bul- 
let, aimed at his heart, had missed its mark. I drev^r 
him into the boat. I had the strength of a giant in that 
hour, mam’selle, and I put for the ‘Dancing Dervish.’ 

“Half an hour after, and we were on our way to Mel- 
bourne, v/ith Lord Roderick lying like a dead man in the 
cabin below. 

“I toM no one on board who he was. It would have 
been fatal. They would have given him up at once. The 
captain was a friend of mine, and an easy, good-natured 
old cove, and kept him, and doctored him, and took care 
of him, and when we reached Melbourne he was nearly 


“The Red Queen.” 


157 

as well as ever. But he was an altered man. A score of 
years could not have changed him as he changed during 
that voyage. It was not that his looks differed much. 
And, I think, little queen, you never saw any one in your 
life half as handsome as Lord Rory.” 

Mignonnette shrugged her shoulders, with a very 
French gesture of impatient disdain. 

“Handsome ! Ah, bah ! What have men to do with 
beauty? Let them be brave, and strong, and clever, and 
what does ^ straight nose and a pair of bright eyes mat- 
ter? I never knew a really handsome man yet who was 
not a born idiot, or else tyrannical and selfish, and cruel 
as Nero. Don’t talk to me of handsome men. I’ve seen 
the animals, and despise them. Your Lord Rory was no 
better than the rest, I dare say.” * 

“Ah, but, begging your pardon, he was, mam’selle. He 
was neither an idiot nor a tyrant. As I said, he changed 
out of all knowledge on the passage out. He had grown 
still as death. He seemed stunned, dazed-like, by the 
knowledge of his cousin’s, guilt. They had been friends 
from boyhood, and Lord Rory loved him like a brother. 
And now he knew that Gerald Desmond had always 
hated him, and had lifted his hand against his life. 

“He never told me what passed between them that 
morning, and — though I’m not a coward, mam’selle, there 
are some things I dare not do — I never dared ask Lord 
Rory any questions about that day, and he never told me. 
Only when, a fortnight after our landing in Melbourne, I 
wanted to stay behind the ‘Dancing Dervish,’ and remain 
with him, he refused point-blank to hear of it. 

-“ ‘Nor>sense, Mike, dear old boy!’ he said, with one of 
his old looks, ‘you shall commit no such folly. You shall 
go to Rio Janeiro in the ship, and I will remain where I 
am. Don’t be alarmed for me — I shall do very well, and 
remember the old mother at home depends on you. I 
will wait where I am for news from home, and you will 
find me here, safe and sound, when you come back.’ 

“Well, mam’selle, the end of the matter was that he had 
his way, and I went. It was hard to part, but — but there 
are more hard things in the world than anything else, I 
think. I went out to Rio, and some other parts, and it was 
full two years before the ‘Dancing Dervish’ got back to 
Melbourne again. 


“The Red Queen.” 


158 

“When we got back he was gone. There was a letter 
for me, dated six months before. I have never parted 
with it since. Here it is now, a good deal smeared and 
torn, blit ma_vbe you can make it out.” 

The sick man drew from his neck a little silk bag, and 
from the bag the dingy remains of the letter. It was 
soiled and torn, and the ink was faded, but the bold, clear 
characters were still perfectly distinct. 

“Read it for yourself, mam’selle,” Mike Muldoon said. 
“It’s the first and last I ever had from him. I know no 
more than the dead what became of Lord Rory!” 

The girl took it. The fading light was dim, but with . 
the first glance at the writing, she recoiled as though she 
had seen a ghost. 

With an exclamation of amazement, of consternation, 
she tore it open, and read rapidly: 

“Df:ar Old Mikl — When your honest eyes see this, I 
shall have left ^ Melbourne forever. I have had news 
from Ireland — news that you, too, have heard, doubtless, 
long ere now. My father is dead. He reigns in the old 
man’s stead, and she is his wife ! My trust in man and 
woman has ceased forever. I do not tell you whither I 
go. I hardly know myself, and it matters little. God 
bless you, my brave old Mike, and good-by! 

“I will never return to the old land. I am a felon and 
an outcast, as you know, and can claim no legal rights. I 
hardly think I should try to, if I could. Let the friend 
I trusted, the woman I loved, be happy if they can, and 
enjoy their new honors in peace. They will never be dis- 
turbed by me. I have discarded the old name with the 
rest, and I sign myself by the new one, under which I 
begin a new life. 

“Robert Drummond.” 

As she read the last word — the name — a low, wailing 
cry broke from the pale lips of Mignonnette, the black 
eyes were dilated, the dark face white and wild. 

“Robert Drummond !” she repeated — “Robert Drum- 
mond! And I know all — at last — at last!” 


Mignonnette’s Secret. 


^59 


CHAPTER 11. 
micnonn^tte's secret. 

The sick man half raised himself on his elbow, and 
stared at her. The face of the little actress, in the lumi- 
nous dusk of the silvery spring evening, was white as his 
own, her black eyes dilated, and blankly staring at the 
faded and crumpled note she held. 

“What is it, Mam’selle Mignonnette ?” Mike Muldoon 
asked, suspiciously. “Did you ever meet Lord Roderick 
Desmond?” 

Mignonnette looked at him, aroused from her startled 
trance, and broke into a laugh — a laugh that was strangely 
different from the silvery, girlish laughter he had often 
heard from those pretty lips. She folded up the soiled 
paper, replaced it in the bag and handed it back. 

“Did I ever know Lord Roderick Desmond? You dear 
old simple fellow ! where should I — Minnette, the actress 
ever meet a live lord ? Oh, no ; I never knew your Lord 
Roderick, your handsome paragon of perfection — but I 
did once know a Robert Drummond.” 

“Mam’selle!” 

“There, there! easy, my brother. Don’t jump so; 
you’ll do yourself mischief. Yes; I once knew a Robert 
Drummond. A very handsome man, too, my good Mike, 
but not in the least like your brave, magnanimous, your 
heroic Lord Rory! Come! I’ll tell you all about him. 
One pretty story deserves another.” 

She sat down by the bedside again, the deeping dusk 
hiding her face and its expression entirely from the anx- 
ious eyes of the sick man. 

“hjearly eighteen years ago, Mike^ — the time corre- 
sponds. you see — only another odd coincidence, of course 
— there came to Toronto a young gentleman who called 
himself Robert Drummond. I say gentleman, because 
this handsome Robert Drummond, I have heard say, 
looked more like an exiled prince than an every-day Chris- 
tian, and teacher of English and mathematics in the To- 
ronto Commercial and Classical Academy — which lie was. 


i6o Mignonnette’s Secret. 

“He spoke like a courtier and bowed like a king, and 
carried himself with a grave and lofty grace that was the 
awe and admiration of all who knew him. Where he 
came from, Wttat his past history might have been, were 
dead secrets. 

“He was the most silent and reticent of men, and no 
one dared question the haughty stranger, who looked with 
such a proud, grand seigneur glance upon all who came 
near him. They set him down for an Englishman ; but 
even that was only supposition. 

“Well, this handsome and haughty teacher of English 
and mathematics boarded in the house of a Toronto me- 
chanic — a poor man, a Frenchman — named Ghateauney, 
because, I suppose, he was too poor to board at a hotel. 
Monsieur Ghateauney had one daughter — beautiful as all 
the angels, so I have heard — just seventeen — my age, now, 
Mike — impulsive, impassioned, headstrong, wayward — • 
all that there is of the reckless and wild, if_you will. She 
saw this beautiful English prince every day, and she fell 
in love with him — as these passionate, fiery natures will 
love — madly. And he — he, looked at her with great, blue, 
weary eyes — eyes that saw her beauty — and never thought 
of it any more than if it had been wax or wood. 

“That drove her to desperation, and she — it was a mad 
and unwomanly thing to do, my good Mike — she soon 
changed all that. She made him look at her; she made 
him know how fiercely she loved him. She was fierce as 
a little leopard. If she lost him, she should die! 

“Monsieur Robert Drummond listened to the frantic 
words of the frantic girl before him in pale amaze. He 
was grave and startled for a moment, then he broke into 
a faint, strange sort of laugh. _ 

“ ‘What does it matter?’ he said. ‘I might as well, and 
she^s really very pretty! Thanks, my beauty! This is 
an unexpected honor ; but if it will make you happy, why, 
I dare say I might as well marry as not. Only, I warn 
you, Fm a poor man, and likely to remain so all my life. 
If that be no drawback, why, I am very much at your 
service !’ 

“A strange wooing, was it not, Mike? And three weeks 
after, Madtooiselle Ghateatmey, looking beautiful in 
white and orange flowers, went to church and became 
Aladame Robert Drummond. . . 


Mignonnette’s Secret. i6i 

“It was an odd marriage. It should have been a happy 
one, since she had the desire of her heart, and he was 
too much of an aristocrat ever to be anything but kind 
and courteous. He did not care for her — no; not one 
straw — and tossing in his dreams at night, he called 
upon another’s name — a woman’s name— not hers. And 
over his heart, sleeping and waking, he carried a woman’s 
picture — a face far more lovely than her own. For this 
jealous wife looked at it while he slept, and her love 
turned to bitterness and hate. He was colder to her than 
ice. Even when their child was born, he just glanced at 
it with those weary, indifferent eyes, then away and out 
into that unknown world he had left behind him. The 
insensate picture in his breast was dearer to him than 
wife and child. 

“She. grew reckless after that — bitter, desperate. I 
told you there was wild blood in her. Before he had 
ever met her she had run away from home and joined a 
troupe of strolling players, who took her for her beauty 
and her voice, for she sang — oh, heavenly! Her father 
went after her and brought her back, and her husband 
never knew. 

“When her recklessness reached its height — when his 
coldness, his insulting indifference could no longer be 
borne — -when he had driven her mad with jealousy — she 
took her child one day and fled far from him — far from 
home — a desperate wanderer, resolved rather to die than 
ever to look upon his stony face again. She did not die. 
She went on the stage once more. , She was not much 
of an actress, but she was so handsome, and she sang so 
sweetly, that managers accepted her, and paid her a pit- 
tance, upon which they lived — she and her child. And 
when years went by, and the little one grew up, she went 
on the stage also, and mother and daughter wandered 
over the world together. 

“Many years after, when the daughter was nearly six- 
teen, Ihey came back to Toronto. The unloved wife came 
back to die ; her heart had broken. She was a worn-out, 
aged woman, with white hair, at thirty-three. 

“She was dying of a terrible pulmonary disease — and 
dying, the old love came backg and she longed, with un- 
utterable longing, to see her husband once more, to hear 
his voice, to feel his kiss upon her dying lips. She had 


i 62 


Mignonnette’s Secret. 

never heard of him from the hour she had left him. He 
had never searched for her, very likely. What did he 
care for her or her child — whether they lived or died? 
She went back to Toronto, to find her father and mother 
dead years before, and her husband gone, no one knew 
whither, immediately after their death. 

“That blow killed her. Three days after she died in 
her daughter’s arms.” 

The soft, low, French-accented voice of Mignonnette 
paused suddenly. It had grown quite dark, the lights 
gleamed up and down the long hospital wards. With the 
last words she arose to go. 

“It is time I was at the theater, Mike,” she said, in a 
totally different tone, pulling out a tiny watch. “See how 
we waste time telling stories ! I must leave you to-night, 
and I wish you a sound night’s rest. To-morrow, early, I 
will be back to write the letter to your mother in Ireland.” 

“But, mam’selle,” the sick patient gasped, eagerly, “for 
heaven’s sake, stay a moment ! Was your Robert Drum- 
mond Lord Roderick Desmond?” 

The little actress laughed — the same strange laugh as 
before her story. 

“He wasn’t mine, Mike. I’d be sorry to own him. And 
he wasn’t your Lord Roderick, of course. The Rol-jcrt 
Drummond of my story was a cold-blooded ingrate and 
villain, whom I hate — whom I — hate !” slowly, and with 
clenched teeth, “while your young lord was a sort of Irish 
archangel. He would never break a loving wife’s heart 
by coldness, and cruelty, and neglect^ would he?” 

“No,” said Mike Muldoon, resolutely; “he would not. 
But, from all you’ve said, I’ll be hanged if I don’t think 
the fault was the woman’s, from first to last ! She was 
no better than she ought to be. That’s my opinion, 
m.am’selle, begging your pardon, if she was any friend of 
yours. She made him marry her, whether he would or 
rc^ — and I’d see any alike at the dickens before 

they’d do that with me ! She didn’t ask for love before- 
nand, so she had no right to raise the deuce about it 
after. And you say he was always civil and kind to her, 
and still she ran away from him, without rhyme or reason. 
Oh, bedad. Miss Minnette, your Mrs. Drummond was a 
fool — no more nor less !” 

Mignonette’s dark face flushed with angry impatience. 


Mignonnette’s Secret. 163 

and her black eyes flashed. Still she laughed — a trifle bit- 
terly. 

“Oh, of course ! Trust a man to judge a woman ! You 
are all alike — hearts of stone. The best of you can’t un- 
derstand us — hardly to be wondered at, perhaps, when the 
best of us can’t understand ourselves. But, Mike !” 

“Yes, mam’selle.” 

“I want to ask you a question. I feel interested in your 
ill-fated Lord Roderick. You told me he was an earl’s 
son?” 

“His only son, mam’selle — the Earl of Clontarf.” 

“The earl is dead, I suppose?” 

“Years ago, little queen — dead of a broken heart.” 

“Yes. And, if this Lord Roderick had his right, he 
would be Earl of Clontarf now?” 

“He would, mam’selle. More’s the pity and the shame 
that he’s not.” 

“Well, suppose he was — suppose he had married, and 
had a daughter — she would bear a title, and be presented 
at court in train and diamonds, and have the best in the 
kingdom at her feet?” 

“She would, mam’selle. There isn’t older or better 
blood in the three kingdoms than the Desmonds of Clon- 
tarf. And she would be a beauty, too. Lord Rory’s 
daughter could not help it.” 

Mignonnette laughed again — that laugh which sounded 
so strangely to honest Mike from her lips. 

“No doubt. Well, his cousin, you say, holds the title 
and estates? This wicked Gerald Desmond — is that how 
you called him? — is Earl of Clontarf to-day?” 

“Ij[e is.” 

“And has he a daughter?” 

“Ay, that he has, and a wonderful beauty. I’ve heard 
say, too. Her mother, they tell me, was that before her. 
She must have been, or Lord Rory would never have 
loved, her as he did.” 

“And her name — was her name Inez, Mike?” 

“Mam’selle!” — again the sick man started up in amaze 
— “are you a witch? I never told you her name.” 

“Didn’t you? Perhaps I am a witch! At least, I 
know it, you see. And your Lord Rory loved her like 
that? Now, if she had loved him one tithe as dearly as 


164 Mignonnette’s Secret. 

my Mrs. Drummond loved her husband, she never would 
have wedded this false cousin.” 

“You're right, mam’selle; no more she would. But it’s 
always the way with women — ^on with the new love, and 
off with the old, at a moment’s warning!” 

“My good Mike,” Mignonnette said, with a French 
shrug, “ain’t you a little severe? I think it is just the 
other way. But that is an open question. One last word 
— tell me the name of Ford Clontarf’s daughter.” 

“She is the Lady Evelyn Desmond.” 

“Evelyn ! Ah !” 

She uttered the name like a cry, recoiling. Once more 
Mike looked at her in wonder. 

“Sure, then, you’d puzzle a Philadelphia lawyer to- 
night, mam’selle. Upon my conscience ! I believe you 
know more about what I’ve been telling you than I know 
myself. If you do ” 

“Nonsense, Mike! I know nothing — nothing, I tell 
you! Never mind me. The moon is at the full, that is 
all. It affects half idiots, you know, and I’m one. I grow 
more of a little fool every day. Good-night, Mike — pleas- 
ant rest. I’ll write the letter to-morrow.” 

And, with these words, she flitted away out of the 
ward. 

Mignonnette passed out of the gate of the hospital into 
the gaslit city streets. Up in the azure the spring stars 
shone. Many people were abroad. Mignonnette had a 
peculiar, swift, light motion — she tripped over the pave- 
ment with the airy lightness and fleetness of a bird. 

As she neared her destination, a gentleman, in a loose, 
light overcoat, slowly sauntered up, with a cigar in his 
mouth, and caught a full view of her face under the gas- 
light. He stopped at once. 

“Mignonnette! you here, and at this hour and alone? 
Surely I am the debtor of some most fortunate accident.” 

Mignonnette glanced up, never halting for a second in 
her rapid walk at the handsome face and tall, gallant 
figure. 

“No accident in the world. Monsieur Trevannance. I 
merely overstayed my time at the hospital, and I don’t 
see how it can concern you, or,” mimicking his courtly 
tone, “make you the debtor of some most happy acci- 
dent !” 


Mignonnette’s Secret. 165 

“By giving me the privilege of escorting you to the 
theater — your present destination, of course. Do me the 
honor to accept my arm, mademoiselle. At this hour it is 
quite out of the question you should be abroad alone.” 

The little actress laughed in immeasurable disdain. 

“Your solicitous, fatherly care is quite thrown away, 
Monsieur Trevannance. And I won’t take your arm, 
thank you. I can get along very well without it.” 

“You will permit me, at least, to accompany you as 
far as the theater door ? It is my destination also.” 

“I beg your pardon — don’t tell stories ! You were 
going in entirely the opposite direction when I met you. 
And — if you will excuse my saying so, monsieur — I pre- 
fer to be alone.” 

“But why? You are as hard to gain an interview with 
as Queen Victoria — harder, by Jove ! That old duenna 
of yours guards you as though you were a living Koh-i- 
noor.” 

“So I am — only a great deal more precious.” 

“As if I did not know that — to my cost. Mademoiselle, 
you are cruel. I owe my life to your care, and yet you 
only save it to render it supremely miserable. You know 
I adore you.” 

But the Brimimel nonchalance of his tone never altered 
as he said it, and the lazy, handsome hazel eyes, looking 
down upon her, burned with no very passionate ardor. 
It would have taken a good deal more than a passion for 
a pretty little actress to rout that languid indifference to 
all things earthly, that had been inbred in him from his 
nursery. 

Yet at the slow, lazy words, the downward gleams of 
his' brown eyes, the blood, flashed red in the dark face of 
the Red Queen, despite her every effort. She caught her 
breath, and bit her rosy under-lip fiercely, as she stopped 
short, all at once, and faced him. 

“Mr. Trevannance, in your country — in Rondon — it 
may 'be the correct thing to impertinently follov/ an ac- 
tress, whether she will or no, and insult her in the public 
streets. But this is another country, and even aristocrats’ 
like 3^011 are amenable to the law. Yonder stands a po- 
liceman. Follow, me another step, and I will give \^ou in 
charge!” 

Kef fiery black eyes flashed up at him with a passion 


1 66 Mignonnette’s Secret. 

and a rage he could not understand. Her little hands 
under her shawl were clenched. He stepped back at once, 
removing his hat. 

“I beg your pardon. It will not be necessary. Believe 
me, I had no intention of insulting you. Good-evening, 
mademoiselle.” 

He bowed to her with courtly grace, and turned away, 
his handsome face quite imperturbable. 

''By George!” he said to himself, leisurely relighting 
his cigar, "what a little leopardess it is I I admire her 
pluck. I admire her — yes, considerably more than the 
affianced of Lady Evelyn Desmond has any right to. Ah, 
well ! we’ll change all that. My lady is not so deeply in 
love with me, or I with her, but that such trifles may be 
overlooked.” 

He sauntered on, his slow, graceful walk in striking 
contradistinction to the bustle about him. 

And Mignonnette, with eyes afire and cheeks aglow, 
hurried on twice as fast as before. 

"Ah I bah, bah, bah!” she said to herself, fiercely. 
"What a little fool you grow ! You ought to be strangled 
— you ! I hate him, with his slow, drawling voice, his 
white hands, his indolent, languid glances, and his inso- 
lent words — yes, insolent, in spite of his courteous tone 
and elegant politeness. I hate him, and one day I shall 
have the pleasure of telling him so.” 

She reached the theater. The play that night was Sher- 
idan Knowles’ "Love Chase” with the "Loan of a Lover.” 

Mademoiselle Minnette was in both — beautiful, bright 
bewitching. She flashed out upon the crowded house — 
the sauciest, the most audacious, the most bewildering 
"Neighbor Constance” those sated playgoers had ever 
seen, and in lace bodice and high cap, singing charming 
snatches of song, she was equally irresistible in the "Loan 
of a Lover.” She needed no rouge to-night. Her dusk 
cheeks burned bright red, her voice rang, her eyes flashed 
black fire, her laugh was clear and sweet as a silver bell. 
And who was to know that, under all that brightness and 
beauty, the heart beneath the velvet bodice beat with a 
dull, bitter pain? 

Above her, in one of the boxes, the center, of a gay 
group of richly dressed ladies, sat her handsome suitor of 
the street. She saw him there, almost without loo*king, 


Mignonnette’s Secret. 167 

and when bouquets were showered upon her in a floral 
deluge, it was his hand which flung that exquisite cluster 
of half-blown roses. She saw them fall. She looked 
straight at him, and setting her gay little boot upon them, 
ground out before his eyes all their beauty and bloom. 

The next instant the curtain fell, and the pet of the 
audience was gone. 

“Why did she do that, Mr. Trevannance?’^ one bright 
young beauty asked the gentleman beside her, over her 
white shoulder. “She trampled your flowers under her 
feet.^’ 

“Where she trampled his heart long ago,” laughed the 
beauty’s brother. “Eh, Trevannance? We all fall like 
corn before the reaper under the black eyes of the Red 
Queen.” 

The gentleman questioned laughed silently, but did not 
otherwise answer, and the little beauty beside him dis- 
creetly asked no more. She was too well satisfied as he 
drew her arm through his, and led her with tenderest care, 
as though she were the only little beauty in the world, 
through the well-dressed throng. It came very easy to 
all women to love Vivian Trevannance, and there was no 
good angel on hand to whisper of plighted vows and a 
lady fair and proud and titled, in old England, waiting to 
be his wife. They drove to a grand ball, and the pretty 
American heiress waltzed her heart entirely away in his 
encircling arms. But the flashing black eyes of Minnette, 
the actress, haunted him strangely — ay, to the exclusion 
of the proud, calm violet eyes of peerless Evelyn Des- 
mond. 

And while the brilliant hours sped on, strung to sweet- 
est' fnusic in those elegant rooms, ablaze with gas-light 
and the glitter of laces, and jewels, and fair faces, where 
Vivian Trevannance waltzed, and looked handsome as 
your dream of a Greek god, Minnette, the actress, sat in 
her room alone by the open window, looking at the bright 
spring stars, golden in the mellow purple of the midnight 
sky. The brilliant dark eyes had lost their fire. They 
were very dim and misty with inward pain. The flushed 
cheeks were strangely cold and pale. 

“To think what I am, and what I might be!” she 
thought, bitterly. “An actress, and — an earl’s daughter ! 
Would he dare look at me — speak to me — as he does, if 


i68 


Colonel Drummond. 


he knew all? Lady Evelyn Desmond !’’ She repeated the 
name slowly. “A beautiful and high-.sounding name ! 
'And I am Minnette, the actress! Is she his Evelyn, I 
wonder ?” 

She lifted from the table beside her a locket set with 
gems, opened it, and gazed by the starlight on the pic- 
tured face— a lovely and haughty, patrician face, far more 
perfect than her own. On the reverse, in golden, glitter- 
ing letters, was the name “Evelyn.” 

As suddenly as she had taken it up she closed it again, 
and flung it from her. 

“Who can wonder that he is blind to every other face 
after that? And yet, in laces and jewels, I would be fair, 
too. Ahy Robert Drummond, I have a long and bitter 
score to settle with you, if we ever meet I” 


CHAPTER III. 

COI^ONEly DRUMMOND. 

The street lamps were just lit in the silvery, luminous 
dusk of a second evening. A tender young sickle moon 
gleamed in the violet arch, with one or two tremulous 
stars shining beside it, and the soft spring wind cooled the 
sultriness of what had been the heat of a midsummer day. 
And gazing with listless, dreamy eyes at all the tranquil 
beauty above, at all the stir and bustle of the street be- 
low, Vivian Trevannance sat at his hotel chamber window 
and smoked his cigar — Vivian Trevannance, who had 
never gone “up the Nile and down the Niger” with his 
Viennese friend; who had changed his mind at the last 
moment, as he had an old trick of doing, and came to 
America instead. 

“Lion-hunting and jackal-shooting may be very lively 
amusement. Cumming and' those other fellows say so,” 
he said, in his nonchalant way; “but I think it’s even live- 
lier out on the plains. I’ll take a trip m Colorado, in- 
stead of Central Africa, and see as good game as lions 
knocked over.” 

A month later he was on the plains with a hunting- 
party, right in the heart of the Indian depredations, and 
if ever he came near being excited and moved out of his 


Colonel Drummond. 


169 

constitutional indolence, it was to see how bravely the 
little bands of Government troops fought against the wily 
and desperate Indians. 

“By Jove! it’s glorious!” he cried, his eyes kindling 
with the w^arrior’s fire. "1 almost wish I had been born 
an American, that I, too, might join in this exciting fray. 
I suppose man possesses, in common with the inferior 
animals, the blood-thirst, or I never would feel the temp- 
tation to join these dashing cavalry so strongly as I do.” 

Trevannance was nearer being “cursed wdth the curse 
of an accomplished prayer” than he dreamed of. 

Riding alone one day through the glowing woods, he 
managed to lose himself completely, nor could any ef- 
fort of his find the right path. There was neither mortal 
nor habitation in view, and he was making up his mind, 
as the evening closed about him, that he was destined to 
spend the night in the woods, when, rnounting a hillock, 
he beheld in the plain below a duel to the death going on. 

A band of United States cavalry were encircled by 
thrice their number of Indians, and were fighting as men 
only fight for their lives, cheered on by one at their head, 
whose sword gleamed and flashed, and fell like the sword 
of the Lion-Hearted among Saladin and his Saracens. 

Trevannance looked but once; then, with a mighty 
shout and leveled revolver, he was down like a whirlwind, 
and charged with the weaker side. 

It was a bloody and bitter contest. The little soldier 
band fought with reckless desperation, cheered on by 
their leader, a stalwart, magnificent-looking man, whose 
long, fair hair streamed in the wind, and whose blue eyes 
gleamed with the fiery war-light. 

Side by side with this leader, Trevannance fought — ■ 
fought like a very fury. Twice his horse was shot under 
him — twice he sprang upon the backs of others whose 
riders had fallen in the melee. 

Victory hung doubtful long, but as night closed it flut- 
tered to the banner of the fair-haired officer, and the In- 
dian band, routed and slaughtered, fled helter-skelter intO' 
the woodland, and were lost in the deepening night. The 
officer might have borne a charmed life, for while bullets 
whizzed like hail about him, he had come through the 
sham ordeal unscathed. 

Half his little band lay dead around him, and as he 


Colonel Drummond. 


170 

turned to speak to his unlooked-for and unknown volun- 
teer, Trevannance reeled and fell from his saddle like a 
log. 

^ * * * 

The sunlight of many days after was flooding the hos- 
pital wards with its amber glitter when the fever abated 
and consciousness returned to Trevannance. He opened 
his eyes, and they fell upon a young-, dark, girlish face — 
a very pretty face — bending compassionately upon him. 

“What is it?” he asked, faintly. “Where am I? What 
has happened?” 

“Nothing very unusual, monsieur,” answered his 
piquant-looking nurse. “You had rather a sharp skir- 
mish, got a bullet through the lungs, and have been out 
of your mind for some time, that is all. Mere scratches, 
monsieur. Nothing to what half the poor fellows with 
you got. They tell me you fought well. Very good of 
you, to be sure — an Englishman and a tourist, too!” 

“Ah, I remember!” Trevannance said, faintly. “And 
the officer who fought so bravely — where is he?” 

“Don’t knov/,” said Mignonnette. “Haven’t heard — 
not his name even — although he may be in the city, for 
he had you brought here. Now, you are not to talk. 
Talk’s exhausting, and you’re one of my patients, and I’m 
responsible for you. Keep still and don’t fidget yourself. 
Your officer will very likely drop in through the day to 
see you, if he be in St. Louis.” 

Which he did — a tall and soldierly looking personage, 
who announced himself as Captain Drummond, and who 
heartily thanked Trevannance for his timely succor in the 
fight. 

“It was a close thing,” he said, “You came in the 
nick of time. I wish we had you for good, Mr. Trevan- 
nance; but that is not to be hoped for. We are in St. 
Louis now, you know. Will you remain here, or do you 
particularly wish to be removed to your hotel? I rather 
fear there is no choice, however.” 

“I will remain,” Trevannance answered. “My very 
pretty little nurse tells me my wounds are ^mere scratch- 
es,’ and she intends to be 'responsible’ for me. As there 
is nothing half so good-looking at the Southern Hotel, I 
will stay, in any case, where I am.” 

Captain Drummond laughed. 


Colonel Drummond. 171 

‘‘So your nurse is young and pretty, is she? Very un- 
wise in the powers that be! Instead of allaying fevers, 
young and pretty nurses will create them. I am not 
lucky enough to know anything from experience. My 
time has always been spent in the camp and in the field, 
not in hospital.’’ 

“i^nd you call that unlucky? By Jove! I envy you. 
What a gloriously exciting life yours must be! Are you 
bullet-proof. Captain Drummond, or have you hidden ar- 
mor under your blue and brass, that you pass through 
those hailstorms of bullets unscathed?” 

Captain Drummond laughed again. 

“They say so, at least. My luck, hitherto, has been 
marvelous — that of my whole company, in fact. They 
call us, you know, the ‘Devil’s Own.’ Suggestive, eh? 
Well, I am more than thankful that your gallant conduct 
in that fight did not cost you even dearer than it has. Bad 
enough, of course; but ’pon my life, I thought those 
devilish Indians had finished you for good. I shouldn’t 
leave St. Louis now with a clear conscience, if I didn’t 
leave you in such safe hands.” 

“You leave, then?” said Trevannance, with some re- 
gret. 

He liked the gallant officer who had fought so splen- 
didly, and who looked at him with such frank, genial 
eyes. 

“Immediately. The ‘Devil’s Own’ are never so happy 
as when in field and fray. They like fighting, I believe, 
for fighting’s sake. There’s a little of the tiger in the best 
of us, once we smell blood. Farewell, Mr. Trevannance. 
I may return to St. Louis again before you leave. Mean- 
time, don’t fall in love with your pretty nurse.” 

The two men parted with real regret, slight as their 
acquaintance had been. Captain Drummond went West 
to his ominously named regiment, and Trevannance re- 
mained under the absolute goverment of Mademoiselle 
Mignonnette, in the greater peril of the two, far and away. 

As the days strung themselves into weeks, he lingered 
still, convalescent, to be sure, but not at all anxious to 
leave. His bright little nurse read for him, and talked to 
him, and sang for him, if the fancy took her, and nursed 
him with tenderest care, and— lost her heart inconti- 
nently. 


Colonel Drummond. 


172 

Trevannance left the hospital quite restored, and went 
back to his old quarters. He did not leave, the city. It 
was very pleasant there, and Mignonnette was the be- 
witching little actress of the season. • 

And the winter went by, and the six months’ probation 
was at an end, and still the betrothed of Lady Evelyn 
Desmond lingered in those pleasant pastures. Why he 
could hardly have told you himself. He felt infinitely con- 
tent there, and the proud, serene face of his beautiful 
bride-elect very rarely troubled his dreams. 

So, on this spring night, when he should have been at 
her feet, imploring her to fix their wedding-day, he sat at 
the window in the Southern Hotel, and smoked his 
cheroot, and saw Mignonnette’s big, black, flashing eyes 
athwart the drifting wreaths of smoke. There was the 
discreet tap of a waiter at the door. Then it opened and 
Trevannance glanced lazily over his shoulder. 

‘'A gentleman inquiring for you, sir — an officer — Col- 
onel Drummond, of the — th.” 

‘‘Drummond — at last! Light the gas, William, and 
show him up at once.” 

■ The servant obeyed. Five minutes later, and there en- 
tered, with the unmistakable cavalry swing. Colonel 
Drummond, of the “Devil’s Own.” The two men grasped 
hands with as cordial a pressure as though they had been 
old friends. Some mesmeric sympathy bound them in 
warm liking at once. 

“At last!” Trevannance repeated. “My dear colonel, I 
am delighted to meet you again ! So they have given you 
two or three steps since I saw you last? Well, no man 
better deserved it, if the glowing accounts the newspapers 
give of your exploits be half true. And you have been 
dangerously wounded, too Your charmed life left you 
for once. You look scarcely fit to be abroad yet.” 

He was a very tall, very fair man, this Colonel Drum- 
mond, with chestnut hair, and beard and mustache of 
tawny gold. 

The face at which Trevannance looked, thin and blood- 
less from recent illness, was, with all its pallor, singular- 
ly handsome, and the blue eyes were large and beautiful 
as a woman’s. 

“I have but just arrived,” he said, seating himself by 
the open window. “On the invalid list yet. It will be 


Colonel Drummond. 173 

weeks, months, they tell me, before I am fit for duty 
again. That is the worst of it. I confess it was some 
hope of finding you here still that induced me to return 
to St. Louis, and yet I was surprised when I found my 
hope realized. Has our charming little hospital nurse 
anything to do with it?” 

He smiled as he asked the question, and the smile lit 
up his frank, fair face with rare light and beauty. Smiles 
were not very frequent visitors there. The general ex- 
pression of that handsome countenance was a grava 
weariness, a worn, tired look. Those azure eyes, that 
flashed with a soldier’s fire so brightly in the heat of the 
fray, had a haggard mistiness always in repose. 

'‘Well, I didn’t know,” Trevannance made answer, 
wincing a little at the home-thrust. “Perhaps she has. I 
should have been in England three weeks ago, that is cer- 
tain. However, all delays must end now. I leave by the 
next steamer. My father-in-law-elect has had a stroke of 
paralysis, and lies dangerously ill. I can’t say his lordship 
has a particularly deep hold upon my affections, but, I 
suppose, in common decency, a fellow should be on the 
spot.” 

“To console the fair betrothed, most certainly. So you 
are to be congratulated? The lady is a compatriot, of 
course?” 

“Yes — no — that is — ’pon my life, I don’t know whether 
she is or not! An Irish father and a Castilian mother — ■ 
Castile for a birthplace. What do you think of that?” 

Colonel Drummond was engaged in lighting a cigar. 
He ceased the occupation suddenly, and looked his com- 
panion full in the face. 

“An Irish father and a Castilian mother!” he repeated, 
slowly. “Rather an unusual combination, is it not? 
Might one ask the lady’s name?” 

“Oh, certainly! Lady Evelyn Desmond — otherwise, 
poetically, ‘La Rose de Castile.’ ” 

Colonel Drummond turned slowly away, and quietly 
and deliberately lit his cigar. 

“I have heard that name before,” he said. “Read it, I 
fancy, in the Morning Post. Only daughter, is she not, of 
the Earl of Clontarf?” 

Trevannance nodded, looking out of the window. In 
the clear light below he saw Minnette, the actress, pass, 


Colonel Drummond. 


174 

at the moment, with the old French woman who lived 
with her and “played propriety/’ 

“And so you are to marry her?” the American officer 
slowly said, puffing at his Havana. “She is rarely love- 
ly, of course? I saw the full account of her presentation 
at Court a year ago — her beauty, her diamonds, took 
fully half a column of the Morning Post to themselves. 
And you are the fortunate man! Permit me to con- 
gratulate you, Mr. Trevannance. She is a great heiress, 
as well as a great beauty, is she not? What a wonderfully 
lucky fellow you are!” 

“Why, yes; I am rather fortunate. Best blood of Ire- 
land and Spain — perfect beauty, perfect grace, and, as you 
say, heiress of a noble fortune. The Desmonds were 
poor as church mice until the Spanish alliance filled their 
coffers with doubloons. Yes; the chosen of my Lady 
Evelyn should consider himself a most fortunate man.” 

Colonel Drummond removed his cigar, and looked 
thoughtfully at his companion. He was very pale — ^paler 
even than when he entered, and his eyes gleamed with a 
very unwonted light. He looked at the man before him, 
seated, negligently, in his arm chair, his head thrown 
back, the gaslight full on his handsome, indolent, fair 
English face. 

“He should; but Mr. Trevannance does not. You are 
not particularly ecstatic over it, though to be ecstatic over 
anything is dead against all the creeds, of your order.- 
Your Lord of Clontarf is one of the cleverest peers of 
the realm.” 

“So he is. Fearfully and wonderfully versed in politics 
—power the dream of his life — ambition his god! And 
yet he might have wedded his daughter to a duke, and 
didn’t.” 

“You are a favorite of his, it would seem?” 

“Well, no; not that, either. He and the governor are 
a modern, middle-aged Damon and Pythias, and deeply 
imbued with the notion of uniting the houses of Desmond 
and Trevannance. And, like dutiful children, my lady 
and I bowed and yielded at once. ‘Honor thy father/ 
etc. We are very deeply in love with each other, of 
course, in a gentlemanly and lady-like sort of way. Drum- 
mond,” taking an easier position in the arm-chair, “sup- 
pose you come to England next week and be present at 


Colonel Drummond. 


175 

the nuptials? It’s rather a trial of nerve, they say, that 
sort of thing. Have you ever attempted it?” 

He asked the question with lazy curiosity. This man 
interested him, somehow, more than any stranger he had 
ever met. 

“Have I ever attempted it? Marriage, do you mean? 
Well, yes!”' 

“Then, in common sympathy with a fellow-martyr, you 
will accompany me, see me safely through the ordeal? 
Seriously, my dear fellow, I wish you would. I don’t 
want to part company so soon, and I should very much 
like to present you to the Lady Evelyn Trevannance that 
is to be.” 

A faint flush came over the pale face of the cavalry of- 
ficer. His blue eyes glowed for a moment, then the light 
faded and left him very pale. 

“Thanks. It would be a pleasure, no doubt. But, no! 
My work is here, and here ! stay.” 

“And yet — ^pardon me! — England is your home — your 
birthplace?” 

“You think so? No; you mistake. I am no English- 
man.” 

“You are no American, then, whatever your nationality. 
However, I won’t be impertinently inquisitve, and I can 
only deeply regret your refusal. And now — apropos of 
nothing — I am due at the theatre to-night. Mignonnette 
plays ‘La Reine Rouge.’ Will you come? Very well 
worth seeing, I assure you.” 

Drummond looked for a moment as though about to 
refuse, but, with the gentle temper that was habitual to 
the man, he arose with a certain weariness. 

“It is so long since I have been present at anything of 
the sort that I fear I will fail to appreciate even your 
favorite actress. However, as well there as elsewhere; so 
lead on. I follow.” 

They left the hotel together, and sauntered through the 
shimmering dusk to the theater. The American officer 
was very grave and silent, the Englishman talked lan- 
guidly; but he, too, was not especially brilliant. 

He was thinking how soon “La Reine Rouge” would 
be a dream of the past, and the flashing black orbs of the 
actress exchanged for the proud, serene eyes of the earl’s 


176 Colonel Drummond, 

daughter — thinking it, too, with something nigh akin to 
a pang of regret. 

The house was crowded. It always was when La Mig- 
nonnette played. The two made their way to the English- 
man's invariable box as the curtain fell on the second 
scene. 

It was in the third the pet of the play-goers appeared, 
and as she bounded lightly before them, a little Amazon 
queen, en Zouave, in scarlet cap and Turkish trousers, the 
black eyes atire, the cheeks bright with rouge or color, 
the rosy lips dimpled with smiles, a perfect storm’ of ap- 
plause resounded through the place. 

She was so beautiful, so sparkling, so piquant, and she 
played so well, in her audacious dress, and with her saucy 
glances, she was their idol of the hour. 

“What do you think of her?” Trevannance asked his 
companion, carelessly. “Bewitching, eh? Too young, 
and pretty, and clever, I think, for the life she has 
chosen.” 

There was no reply. 

Surprised a little, he glanced around. Colonel Drum- 
mond sat like a man turned to stone — petrified with some 
unutterable amaze, staring aghast at the brilliant little 
soldier-queen. 

There was an absolute horror in his pallid face and di- 
lated eyes. 

“My dear fellow ! For heaven^s sake ! what is it? Have 
you seen the Gorgon’s head, that you sit there, turning to 
stone?” 

But Drummond never answered. That thrall of horror 
or amaze held him fast. Trevannance took him by the 
arm. 

“Wake up, Drummond! What the devil ails you?” 

The cavalry officer turned his eyes slowly from the 
sparkling vision, ablaze in the gas-light, and looked at his 
interrogator. 

“My God!” he said in a hushed, hoarse voice, “it is 
Minnette Chateauney!” 

“Chateauney?” Trevannance repeated. “So that is her 
name, is it, at last? We all knew her as Minnette, but 
until now her other name was a mystery. So she is a 
Canadienne, after all? I might have been sure of it; with 
those long, almond-shaped black eyes.” 


Colonel Drummond. 


177 

But Drummond never heard him. His gaze had gone 
back to the audacious little amazon queen, so brilliant 
and so. bright before him. 

“It must be the child!” he said in the same hushed 
voice. “But, great heavens ! how like her mother I” 

“Oh, ho!” exclaimed Trevannance. “So you knew her 
mother, my friend? Now for Minnette’s history, at last! 
Really, this grows interesting — mysterious as a sensa- 
tion novel! And you knew the mother of pretty Min- 
nette? Make a clean breast of the whole thing, dear boy.” 

“Knew her mother?” Drummond repeated, blankly. 
“Yes. Good heavens, it is like seeing a ghost! She is 
the living image of Miiinette Chateauney, as I saw her 
first, eighteen years ago. My poor Minnette!” 

“My poor Minnette!” repeated Vivian Trevannance, 
glancing at him with his indolent eyes. “And this is poor 
Minnette’s child! Now, who the deuce. Colonel Drum- 
mond, was Le Reine Rouge’s father?” 

“Trevannance,” exclaimed the soldier, paying no heed 
to a word he uttered, “do you know her? Can I see her? 
I must see her, and to-night!” 

“Quite impossible, my dear sir — not to be thought of! 
Mignonnette wouldn’t grant an audience to the Emperor 
of all the Russias after ten at night.” 

“Then I will send her a note. I tell you, I must, and 
at once.” 

“Do, by all means, if you find it the slightest relief. It 
will serve to light the manager’s cigar. He has orders to 
burn, unopened, all letters left for Mignonnette behind 
the scenes. You see, my dear fellow, I know from pain- 
ful experience.” 

Drummond looked at him earnestly. He was strangely 
and deeply moved out of the stern calm that had grown 
second nature from long habit. Even now, the mo- 
mentary excitement was passing off, and the outward 
quietude returning. 

“I regret that — no — I do not — I am glad she is so dis- 
creet. I can see her to-morrow, I suppose, and to-mor- 
row will do. Meantime, Mr. Trevannance, will you tell 
me all you know of” — he glanced at his bill — “La Min- 
nette?” 

“Undoubtedly — that all being very little. She is La 
Minnette; she is of French extraction — Canadian French, 


Father and Lover. 


178 

of course. She is a charming actress; she is only seven- 
teen years old, and as good as she is pretty. She has an 
old French woman living with her, going whithersoever 
she goes — a Madame Michaud — a very dragon of propri- 
ety and all the virtues. I have never heard a breath 
against the character of the little queen. She has no lov- 
ers — will not listen to a word, though her adorers are 
legion. Her charities are numberless. She gives with 
both hands, and the sick in the hospitals here look upon 
her as an angel of light. So she is — to them. That is 
the history of Mignonnette.^’ 

There was a very unwonted earnestness in his face and 
- voice as he spoke. The bright little actress had a far 
deeper hold upon him than he knew. 

“Thank you,” Colonel Drummond answered, in a sup- 
pressed voice; and, under his beard, the keen ear beside 
him heard a fervent “Thank God!” 

“And now, mon colonel'^ Trevannance asked, coolly, 
“one good turn deserves another. I have given you Min- 
nette’s history — made you acquainted with all appertain- 
ing to her I know. Now, my dear fellow, what is she to 
you ?” 

The blue eyes turned full and grave upon him. The 
calm voice answered, slowly and quietly: 

“She is my daughter!” 


CHAPTER IV. 

FATHER AND DOVER. 

Little Minnette, with a wholesome horror of hotels and 
boarding-houses for such bewitching fairies as herself, 
had a tiny bijou of a furnished cottage in one of the quiet- 
est streets of the city — a little doll-house, snowy white, 
with a scrap of garden in front, two lilac bushes its onlv 
vegetation, a mimic parlor, and dining-room, and kitchen, 
and chambers. 

Here, with Madame Michaud, her “sheep-dog,” a maid 
of all work of the most diminutive proportions, to match 
the establishment, her canaries, her big Canadian wolf- 
hound, Loup, her books and her piano, Minnette dwelt in 


Father and Lover. 179 

her fairy chateau, and entertained her friends. They were 
not many. The little actress made few intimacies. 

One or two of her female theatrical acquaintances, the 
manager, a few of her convalescent hospital patients, her 
dressmaker, her music teacher — these were the chief. 

There w'ere very many callers, very many cards left. 
Dashing young gentlemen drove up to the little front door 
by the dozen ; but Madame Michaud’s shrewd, brown, 
nut-cracker face, always imperturbably good-humored, 
barred the entrance, and madame’s cheery French voice 
piped to these gay Lotharios ever but one refrain : 

“Mam’selle is not at home, monsieur !” 

Mr. Vivian Trevannance could have told you all about 
it. He had been there, you see, more than once or twice, 
or two dozen times; but mam’selle was never at home, al- 
though her laughing, roguish face could be seen spark- 
ling behind the lace curtains. 

In a low rocker, in her toy parlor, she lay back now, 
the bright morning sunlight streaming in between the 
curtains on the delicate carpet ; her pretty soft curls, so 
black, so silky, pushed from her temples; the morning 
paper lying idly on her lap. 

It was a cozy little room, with its profusion of books 
and birds, and flowers and pictures. Loup lay crouched 
at her feet, looking up with big, loving eyes at the face of 
his mistress. 

A fine and costly piano half filled the room. Minnette 
practiced assiduously. She played brilliantly and sang 
delightfully. Music was with her a passion. 

It was still not ten ; but Minnette had been out, and, in 
her street-dress of black silk, a white band and knot of 
rosy ribbon at her throat, she looked as much like a little 
nun as the dashing zouave queen of last night. 

“Is 'it true,” she was musing, with a very thoughtful 
brow, “or but a rumor, that he goes next week? He was 
in his usual place last night, but he threw me no flowers. 
I wish — I wish — I wish — I had never seen his face ! How 
happy I used to be! And now — ah, bah! — and now I’m 
a little fool !” 

She opened her paper impatiently, glanced over its 
items, and was arrested in five minutes by one brief para- 
graph : 


Father and Lover. 


i8o 

“The many friends of Mr. Vivian Trevannance will re-» 
gret his speedy departure for his native land. He leaves 
next Thursday in the ‘Columbia.' " 

That was all. The paper drppped in Minnette’s lap, and 
she sat staring blankly at the fireless, old-fashioned grate. 

It was true, then. He was really going — going to her — • 
going to his bride and bridal ! She sat for nearly an hour 
quite still, a little paler than her wont, but otherwise un- 
moved. Then, drawing out her watch, and seeing the 
hour, she rose, with a long, shivering breath, and rang the 
bell. 

Madame Michaud, with her brown, ever-smiling face, 
appeared. 

' “Mademoiselle rang?" 

“Yes, madame. If Monsieur Trevannance — you know 
him, I think — calls to-day^ admit him." 

She turned away, opened her piano, and sitting down, 
played bravely and brilliantly for nearly another hour. 

Suddenly, through the storm of melody, she heard the 
ting-a-ling of the door-bell. 

“Ah !" she said, with another long breath, “at last !" 

The parlor door opened. It was Madame Michaud, 
with a card and a puzzled face. 

“It is not Monsieur Trevannance, my dear. It is a 
grand, tall gentleman, pale and handsome, and military 
and distingue. He has never been here before, and he 
bade me give you this. He must see you, he says." 

“Must !" Mignonnette rose, statedly, from the piano. 
“Must ! Give me the card." 

She took it, glanced at the name, and turned white as 
death; for the name was “Robert Drummond," and in 
pencil was written : 

“I saw you last night. You’re Minnette Chateauney’s 
daughter. You know who I am. For your dead mother’s 
sake, I conjure you to see me !" 

For her dead mother’s sake! Had some magnetic 
witchery told him that was the only adjuration she would 
not scornfully refuse? ’ Shf' stood with the card in he^ 
hand, cold and whit*?. 

“The gentleman waits, my child," madame said, puz- 
zled by her changing face. “Shall I sro and send him 
away?" 

Minnette looked up. Her heart, that seemed to have 

‘■1 


Father and Lover. 


i8i 


stopped beating for an instant, sent the blood suddenly 
surging back to her face. She reared her stately little 
head erect, her lips compressed, her eyes ominously 
sparkling and bright. 

“No. Show the gentleman in at once.’’ 

Madame, considerably surprised, left the room to obey. 
Minnette stood by the window, the card between her 
fingers, haughty ^as a young duchess. 

An instant later, and the tall, stalwart, form of Colonel 
Drummond towered in the door-way, which he had to 
stoop his head to pass, and father and daughter stood face 
to face for the first time. He was quite white with sup- 
pressed feeling, she erect, superb, defiant. And it was her 
clear, ringing voice that first spoke. 

“Colonel Drummond does me an unexpected honor! 
I knew he was in St. Louis, but I hardly thought he would 
care to see me.” 

“You knew, then, who I was?” 

“Why, yes, monsieur,” Minnette said, carelessly. “I 
^uspected — thought that Colonel' Robert Drummond 
might be the Robert Drummond who drove his wife and 
child from him seventeen 3^ears ago. That was rather a 
dastardly act, although, they say. Colonel Drummond 
fights well. But physical prowess is often a villain’s vir- 
tue.” 

“You knew me?” he repeated, slowly, paying no heed 
to her stinging words. “You knew I was here? You 
knew I was your father, and yet ” 

Mignonnette broke into a laugh — a low, bitter, derisive 
laugh. 

“What would monsieur have? Was I to go to you, to 
fling my arms round your neck, to cry out, as we do on 
the stage : ‘My long-lost father, behold your child !’ So 
devoted a husband, so tender a parent, surely deserved 
no less'! I have been cruelly ungrateful, have I not. Mon- 
sieur le Colonel? And you very properly came here to 
chide me for my unfilial disrespect.” 

“My child, how bitter you are! Was it your mother 
taught _vou this ?” 

“My mother !” Minnette said, her, mocking face turn- 
ing upon him, flushed and passionate. “My mother is an 
angel, and you are a demon ! You dare to take her name 
on your lips— you, who broke her heart, who drove her 


i 82 Father and Lover. 

from you by your cruelty and neglect, who left her to 
starve, or beg, or die, as she chose, with her child! You 
dare come face to face with that child, grown a woman, 
and ask if her mother taught her to hate you ? My mother 
was an angel, whose only fall was when she stooped to 
love you. She never taught me to hate you. No, despite 
her deep and deadly wrongs, she loved you, dastard and 
ingrate, to the last I With her dying breath she forgave 
you — as I never shall 1” 

The impetuous voice stopped, choked by its own pas- 
sion. She was pacing to and fro now, like a little python- 
ess, her e)^es flashing, her cheeks aflame. 

Colonel Drummond, leaning lightly on the back of an 
arm-chair, listened in regretful silence to the wild torrent 
of reproach. 

^‘My child,” he said, very gently, when she ceased, 
^‘you do me less than justice. You have a brave and gen- 
erous heart, they tell me, and the brave and generous 
should be just. If your dead mother stood here before 
me, I do not think she vould say I ever wilfully wronged 
her in word or deed in my life.” 

“No,” Minnette said, bitterly — “oh, no. Monsieur le 
Colonel. You were too courteous a gentleman, too grand 
a seigneur, to use brute force to a woman. You only 
married her, and broke her heart with your merciless cold- 
ness ! You were only chillingly disdainful, and away up 
in the clouds above your bourgeois bride, or back with 
the lady you loved and left in your native land I You 
only drove her mad with vain love and jealousy, and when 
she left you — let her go I” 

“Minnette,” he said — “my daughter!” And at the 
word, uttered in that deep, melodious voice, the girl’s face 
flushed, and her passionate heart throbbed. “Will you 
not listen to me? Will you not try and believe me? As 
Heaven hears and will judge me, I never knew your 
mother was jealous ! I never gave her cause to be so ! 
From the hour she became my wife I strove my best to 
make her happy. If I failed— and I did fail, it seems— it 
was because ours was an ill-assorted union — the mingling 
of fire and ice. 

“When she fled from me — for no cause, I solemnly 
swear, that I ever knew — I pursued and strove to find her 
in vain. I continued the search for months, and only 


Father and Lover. 


183 

gave it up when the conviction forced itself upon me that 
she had died a suicide’s death. I remained with her 
parents whilst they lived, and for her sake was to them as 
a son. You say she was jealous. That was impossible. I 
do not think there was a woman in Toronto of whom she 
could be jealous, that I knew, even by name.” 

‘Tn Toronto!” Minnette said, scornfully. ‘‘Who said 
in Toronto? No, my Lord Roderick Desmond, she was 
jealous of no woman in Toronto! Her rival was the — • 
Lady Inez !” 

At the sound of the name so long unheard, the man 
beside her started as though the ghost of his dead youth 
had risen before him. His face, pale before, blanched to a 
dead, startled white. 

The little actress saw, and laughed aloud. 

“I know, you see ! No wonder Monsieur Drummond, 
the teacher of English and mathematics, looked so like an 
exiled prince. It came naturally. And I am the daughter 
of my lord, Earl of Clontarf ! Fine antecedents for the 
little American actress ! No, Lord Desmond — Colonel 
Drummond — whichever you like — my mother feared no 
rival in Toronto. Her rival, who kept your heart from 
her, was far away in another laiM. None the less surely, 
though, was the work done, and her heart broken.” 

Colonel Drummond listened in pale amaze. But the 
calm of long habit was back when he spoke. 

“How you have learned all this is a profound mystery 
to me. How your mother could ever have heard the 
name you have uttered is still a greater mystery. Certain- 
ly it was not from my lips. But all this is beside the 
question. The past is dead. Let it rest. Whatever I 
have been, I am now, and will ever be — plain Robert 
Drummond. I never was unkind, or unjust, or unfaithful 
to. your dead mother. I tried, to the best of my ability, to 
make lier happy. If she had been a little more patient — 
waited a little longer — all would have been well. You 
would have grown up to love me as a child should love its 
father. My daughter, I am a solitary, a lonely man — you 
a little waif, afloat in a wicked world. Let us bury our 
dead past ; let the future atone for all that is gone. Al- 
ready I love you ; you will soon learn to love me. Min- 
nette — my daughter — come !” 

He opened his arms. She looked up into his face — 


Father and Lover. 


184 

glowing, earnest, noble, good. Her heart went out to him 
with a great bound ; her color came and went ; a mighty 
struggle rent her. She longed to throw herself into those 
protecting, fatherly arms, and sob her tired heart out on 
his breast. But the fierce, indomitable pride of the little 
firebrand held her back. 

“Come,” he said, the deep, rich tones very sweet — 
“come, my little wandering child — my poor little nameless 
darling! Forgive and forget the past! Come and 
brighten my lonely life! Come! You, at least, shall 
never regret it.” 

He made a step toward her. But she shrank away, al- 
most in affright. 

“No, no, no!” she cried, wildly. “Not now — not yet! 
Ah, my God! I swore to hate you, and I can not — -ca.n 
not ! Leave me, leave me. Colonel Drummond. I will 
not go !” 

He saw how excited she was, how she trembled like a 
leaf with the passionate emotion within her, and he yield- 
ed at once. 

“I will go, my child,” he said, very, very gently. “But 
first let me hear from your lips that you do not think me 
altogether the base and unworthy wretch you have 
thought me. Tell me this, Minnette, and bid me come 
again. I can not, I will not give up my daughter !” 

She looked up at him suddenly, and stretched forth her 
hand, great tears standing in her dark eyes. 

“I do believe it. For the rest I can promise nothing. 
Come or not as you like it ; only leave, me now.” 

“I will come to-morrow,” he answered, pressing the 
hand she gave him between both of his. “Until then, my 
child, adieu, and God bless you !” 

The door closed behind him, and Minnette flung herself 
on a sofa, and buried her face in the pillows, hating her- 
self for the weakness she felt — for turning traitor to her 
dead mother at a few pleading words from this man. 

And yet, how good, how great, how noble he looked! 
How brave she knew him to be! And Minnette adored 
bravery. How true and earnest his eyes were as he 
spoke! And that lost mother had been passionate and 
wayward, and rash and impulsive. What if, after all, the 
fruit had been her own, not his? 

“She would have him marry her,” she thought, “know- 


Father and Lover. 185 

ing well he did not love her. Passionate reproaches, sul- 
len jealousies, were not the means afterward to win that 
love. And it might have come with time. . She fled from 
him with his child. Ah, Heaven ! who is*to teach me what 
is right? I don't want to yield after all these years, and 
yet, if I see him again, I know I shall.!’ 

Her musings were interrupted by the sudden entrance 
of Madame Michaud. . 

“Pardon, mam’selle ! Monsieur Trevannance is at the 
door.” 

Minnette sat up. She pushed her tangled curls away 
from her temples, and with that name all the bitterness 
came back. She was an earl’s daughter, and his equal by 
right, and yet he cam'e here to make love to the little ac- 
tress — whose name he would not dare mention to the lady 
he had left behind in England. 

At least, he would learn to-day whether she was to be 
insulted with impunity. She sat up very erect, and all the 
old light and fire came back to the black eyes. 

The dusk face was strangely pale, and its pallor con- 
trasted with the fiery glitter of her large eyes. 

“Admit Monsieur Trevannance,” she said, with a su- 
perb wave of her hand, as a princess condescending to ad- 
mit to an audience her slave. 

Madame hastened away to do her bidding, wondering 
to herself. 

“What is it with the Red Queen,” she thought, “that 
she receives to-day all who come ?” 

Perhaps Monsieur Trevannance was agreeably sur- 
prised also. It was but the second time he had ever 
crossed that threshold. Did she know he was going 
away, that she was thus unusually gracious ? She did not 
look especially gracious as he entered and bowed before 
her. I 

The pale face, glittering eyes, and set, unsmiling mouth 
said, very plainly : 

“Not at home to suitors !” 

“Good-day, Monsieur Trevannance,” mademoiselle 
said, brusquely. “This is an unlooked-for honor. To 
what do I owe it ?” 

They had not spoken before since that memorable even- 
ing on the street, when she had threatened to give him in 


^i86 Father and Lover. 

charge. Her look and tone were not one whit more cor- 
dial than they had been then. 

“Mademoiselle/’ he said, courteously, “I have come to 
beg your pardon. I fear (most unintentionally on my 
part) that I deeply offended you the other evening. You 
will not be implacable, I trust, to me, whose only offense 
is — admiring you too greatly !’’ 

“As how did you offend?” mademoiselle responded, 
with supreme carelessness. “I have forgotten. Oh, by 
following me on the street! My dear Monsieur Trevan- 
nance,” with a light laugh, “what a very unnecessary trou- 
ble you have given yourself! Why, I had forgotten the 
offense and the offender five minutes after.” 

She looked up in his face with the old audacious, pro- 
voking smile he knew so well, on the stage and off it. 
The color came again to the brunette cheeks. 

She made a wonderfully pretty figure, lying carelessly 
back in her low seat, her little ringed hands crossed on 
her lap. 

“Then you are to be envied, Mignonnette. You have 
accomplished what I never can.” 

“And that is^ ” arching her black brows. 

“Forgetfulness! As long as I remember anything, I 
shall remember — Mignonnette !” 

“Mademoiselle, if you please, sir !” the fairy actress 
said, waving her hand, magnificently. “Only my friends 
have the right to call me by that name.” 

“Among whom I am n(5t numbered ?” 

“Most certainly not. A gentleman who, on more than 
one occasion, has insulted me — no need to stare, sir ; I re- 
peat, insulted me — can scarcely hope to be numbered in 
the list of my friends.” 

“Insulted, mademoiselle?” Trevannance repeated. 
“You will pardon me if I say I am utterly at a loss to com- 
prehend you. It is not my habit to insult any woman, 
much less the woman I — love.” 

“There it is again !” Minnette said in her most careless 
tone. “That is the insult. It is the third or fourth time 
you have told me you love me. What do you call that 
but an insult?” 

“I protest,” began Trevannance, half laughing, “it is 
the first time I have ever been told so, and I ” 

“Have made the same declaration to a dozen actresses 


Father and Lover. 187 

before, no doubt !” interrupted Minnette, bitterly. * “But 
there are actresses and actresses, sir, as you will fincT. 
You love me, you say. I laughed at it before, now let me 
treat it in earnest. Let me ask you a question. The man 
who loves a woman should marry her. Monsieur Trevan- 
nance, do you wish to marry me ?” 

She arose as she spoke, her little, slim figure drawn up, 
her haughty head thrown back, with as lofty a grace as 
the Lady Evelyn herself, the great black eyes dilated, and 
fixed on the half-smiling, handsome face before her. 

“Do you wish to marry me?” Minnette repeated. “Is 
that what you mean when you say you love me ?” 

He colored, in spite of himself, and, for once, all his 
long-trained and perfect self-possession failed to find a re- 
ply. 

“I am answered,” she said, very quietly. “I am a little, 
friendless, unprotected girl, forced to starve, or earn my 
living by the one only means in my power. Therefore, 
all you high-born, high-bred gentlemen have a perfect 
right to insult me, if you choose. I am pretty and young, 
and lawful prey to be hunted down, whether I will or no. 
As a great lady once said to an English king T am too 
high to be your mistress, and too low to be your wife !’ 
Take your answer. Monsieur Trevannance, and, with it, 
take this.” 

She crossed the room with the stately step and mien of 
a young empress, and lifted from the table a chain and 
locket, and presented them to him with a deep bow. 

“When you were brought into the hospital, monsieur, 
this fell from around your neck. I took charge of it, in- 
tending, of course, to restore it in a few days ; but before I 
could do so you had made me your first declaration of 
love. I laughed at you then — as I do now, for that matter 
— and kept it. That lady, whose name and picture are 
within, is your plighted wife, is she not, monsieur? And 
you go to England next week to wed her? And you 
thought the flighty little actress, without name, or home, 
or parents, or friends, was in love with your handsome 
face, and would only too gladly accept your left Ipjid, 
V/hilst you honored my Lady Evelyn with your right? 
That was your mistake, you see. Don’t fret for me, mon- 
sieur. I am altogether heart-whole, where you are con- 
cerned !” She laughed saucily up in his face as she said it. 


1 88 The Last Service of the Red Queen. 

“Permit me to thank you for all the pretty bouquets and 
the love you have so freely lavished upon me, and to say a 
pleasant voyage, and — farewell !” 

She made him a low, sweeping stage courtesy, the 
pretty, piquant face all dimpling with laughing light, and 
was gone from the room before he could speak. He could 
hear, as little Madame Michaud entered briskly to let him 
out, the sweet, ringing, silvery voice caroling gaily, in 
one of the upper rooms, the fag end of one of her songs. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE LAST SERVICE OE THE RED QUEEN. 

The afternoon sunlight brightened the hospital wards, 
and the many lying in their infinite misery of pain and 
fever watched it wearily with their dulled, aching eyes. 

The man to whose story the little actress had listened 
the evening before gazed at the golden glory on the white 
Avails, as he tossed restlessly on his feverish couch. He 
was wondering why Minnette had not been there, with the 
letter she had promised to write for him, long before. 

“It is not like the Red Queen to delay,” he thought. 
“Something out of the common has kept her this time.” 

“Am I late, Mike?” a voice said, close to his ear. 

He started round to the other side, and saw the slim, 
little, graceful figure he knew so well standing beside him. 
Over her face she wore, for a wonder, a little mask of 
thick black lace. 

“I didn’t want to be recognized on the street,” she said, 
putting the vail back, “and I have been too busy to come 
earlier. How are you to-day, Mike?” 

“Doing well, they say,” Mike responded, with half a 
groan. “As if any one could do well cooped up here! 
And the letter, mam’selle ?” 

“I haven’t written the letter. There !” a.s. Mike turned 
his eyes in wistful surprise and reproach on her face. “No 
need to look like that. There was no occasion to write. 
I have done much better. I have found — now, don’t 
jump, Mike, you’ll displace the bandages — I have found 
Robert Drummond — your Robert Drummond !’’ 


The Last Service of the Red Queen. 189 

The man uttered a cry. His face blanched, his eyes 
dilated. 

‘'Miss Minnette ! for the love of Heaven ” 

“Now, now, now, Mike! I told you not to excite your- 
self. Yes; your Robert Drummond is alive and well — 
he who was once Lord Roderick Desmond ! . I saw him 
and shook hands with him, not three hours ago. Why, 
how you stare? What is there wonderful in it? You 
never heard he was dead, did you?” 

“No ; but . Oh, mam’selle I” with passionate excite- 

ment, “for the love of God, tell me all! Who is he? 
Where is he? How came you to know him? Does he 
know I arn here? When shall I see him? Speak quick, 
for Heaven’s love !” 

Minnette laughed — her sweet, silvery, girlish laugh. 

“Talk about the impatience and impetuosity of women, 
an. listen to this ! A dozen questions in a breath. Who 
is he? Why, Colonel Robert Drummond, to be sure, the 
famous leader of the ‘Devil’s Own,’ you big, stupid Mike ! 
Where is he ? Here in St. Louis. How came I to know 
him? Well, you recollect the story I told you last night 
bf Minnette Chateauney and her husband? He is that 
husband. Does he know you are here? Not yet. But 
he shall before this time to-morrow, if you can survive 
your frantic anxiety so long. There! I hope you are 
satisfied.” 

She turned as if to leave him, but the sick man grasped 
her dress in an agony of excitement. 

“Mignonnette ! Little Queen ! don’t go. Tell me more. 
Tell me, what is he to you?” 

“I have told you sufficient,” Mignonnette said, with 
sudden hauteur. “I have nothing more to say on the sub- 
ject, and you must permit me to go. T have a great deal 
to attend to this afternoon, and all my patients to visit be- 
fore I leave the hospital. Is it not sufficient that your 
idol lives, and will be with you to-morrov/?” She bent 
over him kindly with the last words. The passionate, 
dog-like fidelity and love in the man’s face touched her. 
“He is not worthy such devotion, Mike. No man alive 
ever was yet. Still, I honor 3^ou for it. And now, good- 
day, and — good-by !” 

She pressed his hand and flitted swiftly away. And 
Mike Muldoon’s last memory of the little queen was that 


190 The Last Service of the Red Queen. 

brightly smiling face, and the sunshine giaking an aureole 
around that graceful head. 

At the earliest possible hour on the ensuing day, Col- 
onel Drummond presented himself at the little cottage. 

He had been at the theater the previous night with 
Trevannance, and a gay party of his friends, and “La 
Reine Rouge” had been at her brightest and most en- 
chanting, and been showered with bouquets as usual, and 
led out after the play, smiling and kissing hands to her 
enthusiastic audience. The sight had given him unutter- 
able pain. She was his child, and the thought of what 
she might have been, had sent a sharper pain to his proud 
heart than ever the loss of his own hereditary honors 
had done. 

There was an unusual bustle around the tiny house. 
The front door stood wide open, and a woman with a 
red handkerchief over her head was washing windows. A 
little girl, armed with a broom, answered the officer’s 
knock. 

“Mam’selle Minnette?” she repeated after him. “Law, 
sir, she’s gone !” 

“Gone ! Gone where ?” 

“Left St. Louis, sir — left this morning. What’s your 
name, please? She left a note.” 

“My name is Drummond — Robert Drummond.” 

“All right, sir,” cried the girl, briskly. “The note’s for 
you, sir. Wait a minute, and I’ll fetch it. Mother and 
me, we’re a-cleanin’ up.” 

She darted away, and was back immediately, with a 
little oblong note in her grimy finger and thumb. 

“Colonel Robert Drummond,” she read from the en- 
velope., “Will you step in while you read it?” 

“Thanks — no! I will read it here.” 

The girl left him and resumed her work. 

He leaned lightly against the door-post, and opened 
the letter. It was very brief and cold. 

“Coi^ONDiv Drummond — I write what I cannot trust 
myself to say — farewell ! I may have been mistaken in 
the past of my estimate of you, but none the less do I 
feel bound by my promise over my dead mother. We 
are better apart. We owe each other neither love nor 
duty. Let us forget we ever met. Have no fear for me. 


The Last Service of the Red Queen, 19 1 

I .can protect myself, young as I am, and dangerous as is 
my profession. Do not follow or search for me. If you 
found me to-morrow, what would it avail you? If the 
day ever comes when I need your care and protection, I 
will send for you. < Until then, leave me in peace. And 

now a last favor : go to Hospital. There lies an 

old friend — Mike Muldoon — who, twenty years ago, 
saved your life. He longs for your coming as the blind 
long for light. Adieu. Minne^tte:.''" 

As Colonel Drummond read the last words, he started 
up with a suppressed cry. Mike Muldoon, and after all 
those years ! The shock of surprise, for a moment, was 
stronger even than the shock of bitter disappointment at 
the flight of Minnette. 

“It must be as she says,’’ he thought, as he strode 
swiftly away in the direction of the hospital ; “to seek her 
out would be to change this dawning forgiveness into 
anger and hate. And yet — poor, lonely child ! — it seems 
a cruel and heartless thing to do.” 

Ten minutes later he was striding through the hospital 
wards, making his way to the humble friend who so many 
years ago had rescued him from death — who had loved 
and cherished his memory as neither the kinsman he 
trusted nor the woman he loved had done. 

“Mike!” 

“It was the old, familiar voice — the music for which 
Mike Muldoon had thirsted in vain many a weary year. 
The cloudless, azure eyes looked down upon him as they 
had looked a score of years ago in old Ireland ; the bright 
smile that lit the handsome bearded face was the very 
smile of auld lang syne. 

The wounded man rose up with a cry — a cry of irre- 
pressible joy. 

“Lord Rory !” he said, his whole face lighting with ec- 
stasy. “Oh, thank God !” 

Colonel Drummond laid his hand over the man’s mouth, 
with his peculiarly gentle, melancholy smile. 

“Not that name, Mike. I have done with it, now and 
forever. I am Colonel Drummond. If you like, call me 
so.” 

“Blow me if I will !” Mike responded, with sudden fe- 
rocity. “You’re the Earl of Clontarf, and no man on 


192 The Last Service of the Red Queen. 

earth has a right to that title while you live. Why haven’t 
you gone, years ago, and torn the coronet from that per- 
jured murderer’s head?” 

“Easy, Mike, easy ! Some one will hear you. My good 
fellow, you know I could not. The charge under which 
I lay, w^hen you saved my life and took me from Ireland, 
stands unrefuted still. I am a felon. I can claim no civil 
rights.” 

“You can claim them, and you are no felon. And if 
you’re the man I take you to be, you’ll give up everything 
— fighting here among the rest, though it’s a larky life, I 
allow — and you’ll go back to the old country, and you’ll 
vindicate your honor and claim your lost birthright.” 

“Easier said than done. Twenty years ago they found 
me guilty, through the perjury of two scoundrels, of high 
felony, and the charge was as easily disproved then as 
now. If I went back to-morrow, would they take my 
word for it I did not murder Kathleen O’Neal? Oh, no, 
Mike ! Death from a bullet I don’t so much mind — we 
risk that every day — but death at the hands of Jack 
Ketch is quite a ^different matter. Not that I would be 
the first Desmond of Clontarf who reached that lofty 
destiny,” he added, with a half laugh. 

“Nor the last, I hope,” Mike ground between his teeth. 
“If ever man was born for the gallows, Gerald Desmond’s 
that man ! Go back to England, Lord Rory, and tear the 
coronet and title he holds from him. Show him to the 
world as he is — a liar, a coward, a perjurer, and a mur- 
derer!” 

The calm e3^es of Cofonel Drummond flashed with some 
of Mike’s own fiery passion. But his voice, when he 
spoke, held its habitual quiet. 

“You talk at random, my good fellow. Do you think I 
would remain a felon and an exile in a foreign land, if 
the power were mine to dp as you say ? I know Gerald 
Desmond to be a perjurer and a would-be murderer, but 
I have no power to prove it. If I had, no dread of de- 
tection for myself would hold me back.” 

“The way is easy,” the sick man said, vehemently. 
“Only find that devil’s limb Morgan. He knows every- 
thing, and will confess.” 

“Will he?” doubtfully. “I am not so sure of that. If 


The Last Service of the Red Queen. 193 

he still lives, he is doubtless what he was twenty years 
ago — the slave and tool of the other greater villain/’ 

'‘No, sir — no, my lord — there you are out. He is not 
the tool of Gerald Desmond. He served that gentleman’s 
dirty purposes; and when his work was done, got kicked, 
like a dog, out of his way. He was sent to Norfolk 
Island for fifteen years for some of his devil’s tricks, and 
his time was up a year or so ago. When he returned, a 
broken-down beggar, my Lord Clontarf’s alms were the 
horsewhip and the horse-pond. I had a letter some 
months ago, from home — from one Tim McCarty, an old 
friend of mine that keeps a public-house, and he told me 
Morgan was at his place a week or so before he wrote. 
He was blind drunk, and swearing vengeance against 
Gerald Desmond. 

" T could tear him down from his high estate, if I 
choose,’ says he, 'and I will, too — the liar and murderer ! 
I wish Lord Rory were alive to-day. I’d soon tell him 
who drowned Kathleen O’Neal — ay, if they hung me for 
it an hour after! I’d hang willingly, so that they strung 
him up, too !’ 

"Tim and the rest,” Mike continued, "set all this down 
for drunken blather ; but you and I kno.w better. Go 
back. Lord Rory; give everything up, find out Morgan, 
and make him turn queen’s evidence. You’ll get your 
own, and Gerald Desmond will get his own — a hempen 
halter!” 

There was dead silence. The face of Colonel Drum- 
mond had grown very pale and grave. 

"You will go, Lord Rory?” Mike urged in an agony of 
suspense. 

The man who called himself Robert Drummond turned 
his strong, deep eyes upon that beseeching face. 

"I will go, Mike,” he said, slowly. "You are right. 
My honor must be vindicated, if there be any earthly 
way. If what you say be true, and I do not doubt it, 
the way is open at last. I will go. I will find William 
Morgan, if he is above ground, and wring the truth 
from him. They will hardly recognize the sunburned 
American colonel as the beardless young lordling, 
drowned twenty years ago in Wicklow Bay,” with his 
thoughtful smile. "And if they do, it will go hard with 


194 The Last Service of the Red Queen. 

them to prove it. Would you have known me again, 
Mike?” 

‘‘The wide world over, Lord Rory ! And you have 
not changed much — grown stouter and browner, but, 
barring the beard, nothing to speak of. Oh, faix, Td 
know your skin on a bush !” 

Colonel Drummond half laughed as he arose to go. 
The physician was approaching on his daily round. 

“They will hardly be so sharp-sighted,” he said. “In 
that world they never remember the absent long. I leave 
you now to return to-morrow. I shall depart for Eng- 
land in the ‘Columbia’ next week.” 

He quitted the hospital, and walked briskly to his hotel. 
As he approached, he encountered Trevannance, looking 
hurried and pale. 

“Have you heard ?” the younger man asked, with sup- 
pressed excitement. “Mignonnette is gone !” 

“Ah!” 

“She left this morning. The cottage is in charge of 
the owners. She and Madamq Michaud and Loup made 
their exodus by the early train for New York. Last 
night was the conclusion of her engagement. She refused 
every offer to renew it, bade h^r friends farewell, and has 
vanished. Do you know anything of this. Colonel Drum- 
mond?” asked Mr. Trevannance, with considerable suspi- 
cion. 

For answer, Colonel Drummond placed the farewell 
note of the little actress in his hand. 

“Knowing so much already, you may as well read this. 
I saw her yesterday, urged her to quit the stage, and 
permit me to shield her with a father’s love and protection. 
That is her answer.” 

Trevannance read it, with a- very blank face. 

“Good heavens, what a wilful, reckless sprite ! And she 
must be obeyed. If we followed and found her to-mor- 
row, as I suppose we could easily do, it would only render 
her twice as defiant and determined. We must let her 
go — mad, absurd child !” 

“We must!” repeated Colonel Drummond, eyeing his 
companion keenly. “Pray, how comes the pronoun to 
be plural? Have you any especial claim upon Minnette, 
the actress?” 


The Last Servi(!:e of the Red Queen. 195 

Mr. Trevannance looked rather disconcerted, and the 
laugh with which he answered, sounded somewhat forced. 

“Oh, no! Of course not, beyond the ordinary claims 
of strong interest and friendly liking. She is but a child 
in year3 — a very bewitching and precocious child, I grant 
you, and by far too pretty to be tossed, like a stray waif, 
upon the stormy sea of life. And she is your daughter, 
colonel? ’Pon my life, it’s an out-and-out romance!” 

“A very matter-of-fact romance,” Colonel Drummond 
responded, coldly, “of which we will speak no more at 
present. There is nothing for it but to do as she says, 
and trust that the day may come when she will send for 
me. Meanwhile, I intend to be your fellow-passenger, 
next week, to England.” 

“My dear colonel, I am delighted!” said Trevannance, 
with unusual warmth. “I thought you could hardly be 
cruel enough to forsake a friend in the great crisis of his 
life.” 

The colonel- smiled. 

“You mistake. I sympathize with you, but I go on 
urgent business of my own — business that will preclude 
all possibility of my visiting you.” 

“No business can be so urgent as to preclude a week 
or two of sojourn at Royal Rest. And I want to intro- 
duce you to Lady Evelyn. You will like each other, I am 
certain. You are a hero, and she is a hero-worshipper. 
I ought to dread a rival, but my liking for you is stronger 
than my dread. So, my dear fellow, be gracious and 
come.” 

Colonel Drummond looked at him an instant in grave 
thought. 

“If he knew my mission,” he thought — “if he knew it 
was to expose as a murderer to the world the father of 
his plighted wife — to strip him of title, and honor, and 
rank! But to see her— Inez — once more — to confront 
him — to look on the daughter of Inez d’Alvarez I Shall I 
yield and go?” 

“Well,” Trevannance said, “and what means that gaze 
— face as solemn as a church-yard slab? Are you de- 
bating whether you shall say ‘yes’ or ‘no’? Let me de- 
cide — ‘yes’ is the pleasanter word. Let it be ‘yes.’ ” 

“With all my 'heart!” Colonel Drummond responded, 
drawing a deep breath. “Let it be ‘yes 1’ ” 


196 


The Ivory Miniature. 


CHAPTER VI. 

IVORY miniature:. 

It was close upon sunset. Far off above the Devon 
hills the rosy clouds trooped, and down here on the shore 
the sun was sinking into the sea in an oriflamme of gor- 
geous splendor. And half sitting, half lying on a turfy 
bank, with yellow water-willows trailing over her, a girl 
sat watching, with her heart in her eyes, that red light 
on sea and sky. 

With the crimson glory threading fiery rays through 
the shining bands of satin black hair, gleaming in the 
deep, large eyes, lighting the fair, pure face, she looked 
a rarely lovely vision. Her dress of azure silk, not so 
blue as her eyes, trailed with its perfumed laces the turfy 
sward ; a mantilla of rich, black lace fell loosely over the 
noble head and slender form, and out of its dark folds 
the pale Spanish face shone like a star. She lay idly 
there, gazing with misty, far-off eyes at the brilliant sun- 
set on the sea. 

Farther down on the shore stood a young and pretty, 
but more matronly looking lady, holding by the hand a 
little boy of four or five. They, too, watched that rosy 
sunlight in the wide ocean, and the boats with their white 
sails flitting to- and fro.* 

“Very pretty, isn’t it, Ernest?” Lady Clydesmore said 
to her little son ; “and La Rose de Castile watG;Jies it as if 
she had never seen the sun go down before. But all its 
beauty won’t gather the shells we came after, will it, 
Ernie? And” — drawing out a jeweled watch the size of 
a sixpence — “it’s only thirty minutes until dinner.” 

La Rose de Castile glanced over with a smile. 

“Don’t mind me, Beatrice ; go with Ernie for the shells. 
I feel lazy, and prefer waiting here.” 

“To dream of my husband-elect,” Lady Clydesmore re- 
sponded, with a gay little laugh. “He will be here to- 
night for certain — happy fellow ! Come, Ernie, let us col- 
lect our shells ; time is on the wing.” 

The wife and son of Viscount Clydesmore started down 


THe Ivory Miniature, 197 

the white strand in search of the shells, whereon the little 
Ernest had set his four-year-old heart. And Lady Eve- 
lyn Desmond was left alone to dream of the coming of 
her husband, in future, if she chose. 

Her face had clouded perceptibly at Lady Clydesmore's 
words. When she had gone she drew forth a letter, re- 
ceived the day before, and read it over. It was dated 
‘"London,” and signed “Vivian Trevannance,” and it an- 
nounced his speedy arrival at Royal Rest. It was a model 
lover’s letter — calm, courteous, gentlemanly, telling of his 
voyage across, regretting^her father’s illness and express- 
ing his pleasure at once more beholding her. 

“I bring with me a friend,” wrote Lady Evelyn’s lover 
— “an American officer — like Ney, the ‘bravest of the 
brave,’ a very hero of romance, whose life seems to have 
run after the fashion of a three-volume novel. His name 
is Drummond. You will like him, I am certain.” 

She read the letter over very slowly and thoughtfully, 
and when she folded it up not all the rosy glow in sky 
or sea could light the gloom that lay on the perfect face. 

“Does he love me ?” she thought ; “do I love him. Are 
we both playing a part, and for what ? I dread his com- 
ing — yes, dread — when I-^should rejoice. His absence 
was like a reprieve to a sentenced criminal ; his coming 
brings nothing but terror. Is it just to him to become 
his wife with a heart that is cold as stone, so far as love 
is concerned? They have called me an iceberg, those 
others. .Perhaps I am, for love such as I have read and 
heard of I have never felt. Will my life be like poor 
mamma’s, forlorn and dreary? Will I marry Mr. Tre- 
vannance, and in a year or two meet him only once or 
twice a month, as she does papa, and then with the cold 
formality of utter strangers? And yet — no, I cannot be 
quite as wretched as she, for she loved another with all 
her heart, and lost him.” 

She drew forth from the pocket of her dress a little 
ivory miniature. It was the portrait of Roderick Des- 
mond, given her by her mother, and which she had an 
odd fancy for carrying about with her. The fair, frank 
beauty of the face had a charm for her; the violet eyes 
looked up at her full of boyish brightness and life ; the 
lips seemed to smile. The colors of the picture were 
fresh and undimmed, the likeness a living. one. 


198 The Ivory Miniature. 

“How noble he looks, how beautiful!’’ she thought. 
“Ah, one could love such a man as this I And they 
thought him a murderer — with that face !” 

So absorbed was she* in her day-dream that the sound 
of approaching footsteps on the veh'^et sward behind never 
reached her ear. Two gentlemen in evening-dress, under 
their light spring overcoats, smoking cigars, came down 
the sloping bank toward the strand. 

“Look yonder,” the elder of the two said, pointing with 
his manila. “The ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ is it? Or, per- 
chance, the lady of whom you are in search.” 

The other looked languidly. The evening was warm, 
and he was not prepared to excite himself. 

“If she would only turn round,” he murmured in his 
sleepiest tone. “That stately poise of the head, that man- 
tilla. Ah, yes ; it is Lady Evelyn.” 

“What is that? A book? No, a portrait; yours, no 
doubt, and she is absorbed over it. Good Heaven !” under 
his breath ; “what a lovely face !” 

“Yes, she is beautiful,” Trevannance said, placidly; 
“and — she hears us at last.” 

The crashing of a dry twig under his foot reached her 
ear; she glanced carelessly over her shoulder; the next 
instant she had arisen, and the miniature had fallen un- 
heeded at her feet. 

The meeting was very quiet ; there was no scene. Mr. 
Trevannance took both her hands in his, and touched his 
lips lightly to her white forehead. For her, she was 
grown very pale ; the hands turned cold in his warm 
clasp ; otherwise there was no sign. 

“They told us you had gone to the shore,” her lover 
was murniuring, “and we took the liberty of following. 
My dearest, are you well? Have I startled you? You 
are pale as a spirit.” 

“I am quite well,” she answered, panting slightly. “A 
little startled, yes. I did not know you had arrived.” 

“Arrived early in the day. Would have sent word, 
but wished to surprise you. I had thought to find you 
in London still.” 

“Papa’s illness induced us to leave town. Lord Clydes- 
more insisted on our returning here with his familv. 
Yonder is Lady Clydesmore and Ernest. How surprised 
she will be at your unexpected apparition 1” 


The Ivory Miniature. 199 

“Agreeably, I hope. Allow me to present my friend, 
Colonel Drummond, of the United States service. Colonel 
Drummond, the Lady Evelyn Desmond.” 

The American colonel bowed low before the stately 
beauty, the most perfect he had ever seen ; and Lady 
Evelyn, with a proud inclination, just glanced at him, and 
started in a sudden surprise, and looked at him steadily 
and long. Where had she seen that handsome face, with 
its deep-blue, brilliant eyes, its waving chestnut hair and 
gold-brown beard, before? It was as familiar as her 
own face in the glass, and yet utterly strange. 

“Allow me.” The voice of her plighted husband broke 
the spell. “You have dropped this, I fancy.” 

He picked up the ivory miniature from the ground, 
where it lay in some danger of being trampled on, and 
presented it to her. 

Both gentlemen saw the pictured face distinctly, and 
saw that it was not the face of her lover. A faint flush 
of swift surprise passed over the pale bronze of Colonel 
Drummond's countenance. For Trevannance, he was of 
Talleyrand’s kind. If you had kicked him, his face would 
not have shown it. The instant after he had given it to 
her he started forward to greet Lady Clydesmore, with 
rather more effusion, perhaps, than he would otherwise 
have shown. 

“So the prodigal has returned!” her gay little ladyship 
said, most cordially shaking hands. “We missed you hor- 
ribly last season, Vivian ; I missed you. In a valse a deux 
temps I don’t know your equal. You have my step better 
than any one alive. And as for private theatricals, you 
stand unrivaled. Yes, we missed you; didn’t we, Evelyn, 
dearest? And if I was acquainted with any fatted calf 
in the neighborhood, I should have him killed on the in- 
stant. When did you reach Royal Rest ?” 

Trevannance told her, laughingly, and led her up to his 
friend, whom he presented in due form. Little Lady 
Clydesmore, the most genial of peeresses, frankly held 
out her hand. 

“So happy to meet you, colonel ! Have heard all 
about your exploits from Mr. Trevannance’s letters to 
Lord Clydesmore, and welcome you sincerely to England. 
I adore America and the Americans. You must tell me 
all about the country. . Vivian, you come with us, of 


200 The Ivory Miniature. 

course, with your friend, and dine. Oh, no excuse! I 
insist upon it.” 

‘Xady Clydesmore’s lightest wish is equivalent to a 
command,” Trevannance said, bowing low. ‘‘My friend 
and I are entirely at your disposal.” 

‘‘That’s as it should be. And as you must have a thou- 
sand and one things to say to Lady Evelyn, Colonel 
Drummond and I will lead the way. Only I beg leave to 
premise it is past seven. We dine in half an hour; and 
Lord Clydesmore, though but one remove from an angel 
in a general way, does lose his temper if the soup is cold.” 

With which my lady gayly took the American officer’s 
proifered arm, and leading her little boy by the hand, and 
chattering airy small-talk, walked away. She was the 
merriest and most coquettish of little matrons, a coquette 
from her cradle, and would have flirted with the Wander- 
ing Jew, had that often-talked-of, seldom^seen Israelite 
appeared. As it was, her present flirtee was far and away 
the handsomest man she had seen in a long time and 
vouched for by Vivian Trevannance, her brilliant Lady- 
ship’s silver voice ran full tilt — bent on conquest. Col- 
onel Drummond listened, as in duty bound, smiled and 
responded ; but all the while it was not the rosy, dimpled, 
pretty face of the viscountess he saw, but that other be- 
hind, pale and proud and peerless, the loveliest his eyes 
had ever seen. It was Inez d’Alvarez over again, only 
more spiritual, more beautiful, less of the “earth, earthy;” 
and the golden days of his youth came back, and he was 
her happy lover once. more. 

It was not “love at first sight ;” it was only the old love, 
that had died out, warming in his heart once more. He 
forgot the years, long and weary, that had gone, and 
changed his Spanish beauty into a faded, pallid matron. 
The Inez of his youth, of his love, walked behind with 
Vivian Trevannance. The blue, brilliant eyes, the pure, 
starry face, must haunt him to his dying day. And the 
smile that answered my Lady Clydesmore was absent and 
a little sad, and the mind that took in her present prattle 
had wandered far away. 

The lovers behind followed slowly, she leaning lightly 
upon his arm, listening whilst he spoke of the land he had 
left, of his regret at her father’s illness, his happiness in 
meeting her again. But from this last topic he started so 


201 


The Ivory Miniature. 

perceptibly that he paused. He looked down in the splen- 
did face beside him, with an annoyed sense of defeat and 
jealousy in his breast. 

“You promised to try and learn to love me when I 
was gone, Evelyn,” he said, bending over her. “My dear- 
est, have you kept your word?” 

Her eyes fell, her cheeks flushed. 

“I have striven; I have done my best. I think, some- 
times, it is not- in me to love at all, as you would have 
me. Spare me now. • Another time ” 

She faltered and paused. 

He thought of the ivory miniature, with a sharp, cruel 
twinge of jealousy. It was not the jealousy of alarmed 
love, but of imperial man’s wounded vanity. 

“No other has supplanted me ?” he said, his eyes light- 
ing. “You were the belle of London last season ” 

He stopped. She had looked up at him, with all her 
Spanish blood afire. 

“You have said quite enough, Mr. Trevannance. The 
question is an insult. I disdain to reply.” 

“I beg your pardon ; I did not mean it. I spoke on the 
impulse of the moment ; and I love you so devotedly, my 
darling, that your coldness drives me wild.” 

But even as he spoke there came floating to him, 
through the purple haze of the spring twilight, a bright 
brunette face, laughing, saucy, defiant, with sparkling 
black eyes and dimpling smiles — the dark face of Min- 
nette, the actress. And in that hour, with his peerless 
patrician bride on his arm, Vivian Trevannance knew he 
loved the little Canadian actress best. 

Silence fell between them. Lady Evelyn was looking, 
with eyes full of thoughtful interest, at the stalwart figure 
of the American colonel before her. Trevannance saw it, 
and smiled — it was too soon to be jealous of him. 

“You honor my friend with especial regard,” he said. 
“You have deigned to look at him — twice. May I ven- 
ture to ask why?” 

“Yes. Tell me where I have seen him before ; he puz- 
zles me. Who is he like?” 

“You have never seen him before, and your puzzle is 
clear to me. Shall I tell you whom he is like?” 

“Yes; for I am at a loss.” • 


202 


The Ivory Miniature. 

He touched the ivory miniature, looking into her grave 
face with a searching smile. 

‘Taney him twenty years younger, and with all that 
magnificent auburn beard ungrown, and he might sit as 
the original of the picture you hold.'’ 

It was a difiicult thing to disturb the perfect self-pos- 
session of La Rose de Castile; few had ever seen the 
phenomenon ; but at these words she paused suddenly, 
with a low, irrepressible cry, for at one glance she saw it 
— the strange, the wondrous resemblance. 

“It startles you," her lover said ; “and yet we meet 
these accidental resemblances now and then. This is the 
portrait of a friend?" 

“It is the portrait of a man who was murdered twenty 
years ago," Lady Evelyn said in a frightened voice. 
“Mamma gave me this picture. What does your friend 
mean by wearing a dead man’s face?" 

“Can’t say," her lover responded, with a half laugh. 
“Fll ask him, if you like. Who is the gentleman he so 
vividly resembles?" 

She .hesitated a moment, then answered, slowly : 

“I may tell you in confidence — Lord Roderick Des- 
mond. You will have heard of him. He was papa’s 
cousin, the late Lord Clontarf’s only son. There was foul 
play ; he was wrongfully accused of a murder ; he made 
his escape from prison, and was cruelly murdered him- 
self." 

“My dearest Evelyn, how can you possibly know all 
this?" 

“Mamma knows it — mamma told me. She was to have 
been his wife. She loved him very dearly. She has cher- 
ished his memory and his picture all' these years, as even 
a wedded wife may cherish the memory of the dead. She 
must not see this man. The likeness is something terri- 
ble." 

They had entered the park gates, and were passing up 
the avenue. Two gentlemen, pacing leisurely around a 
vast ornamental fish-pond, paused upon seeing them, in 
some surprise. 

“Yonder is my lord and the Earl of Clontarf, taking 
their before-dinner constitutional, and gazing with the 
eyes of astonishment upon Vivian Trevannance," cried 


Tlie Spell of tlie Encliantress. 203 

out Lady Clydesmore. “Run to papa, Ernie, and show 
him your shells.” 

She did not glance up at her companion. Had she done 
so, the gleam in his deep eyes, the rigid compression of 
his mouth, under that beautiful golden beard she admired 
so much, might have startled her. She saw nothing. She 
led him up to the two gentlemen and presented him. 

“Lord Clydesmore, Colonel Drumrnond, the friend of 
whom Vivian Trevannance has written you so often. 
Colonel Drummond, the Earl of Clontarf.” 

The two men looked each other straight in the eyes — 
Colonel Drummond and the Earl of Clontarf; and the 
Irish peer, pale before from recent illness, turned ghastly 
white and reeled like a man who has been struck a blow. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE SPEEE OE THE ENCHANTRESS. 

And so those two had met again ; once more they stood 
face to face who had parted last in a bitter, murderous 
death-struggle on that lonely rock on the Irish coast. It 
arose before them both in that instant — the wide sea, the 
desolate strip of coast, the rosy splendor of the new daV 
radiant in the east, and two who had been as brothers 
locked in that fierce struggle for life or death. 

In the ears of the Earl of Clontarf sounded the crash of 
his murderous fire ; before his eyes arose the vision of that 
brave, bright boyish face, as it had looked up at him ere 
being hurled headlong over the dizzy cliff. . Oh, God ! had 
there been a day or a night, sleeping or waking, in which 
that face had not risen up before him to curdle his blood 
and blanch his guilty face? And now, after twenty long 
years, a stranger must come from a foreign land and look 
at him with the dead youth’s eyes ! 

The gaze of all was upon him — that of his daughter 
with a strange intensity that was almost terror. She knew 
the reason of that recoil, of that stifled exclamation, of 
that corpse-like pallor ; he, too, saw the resemblance be- 
tween this American officer and his murdered kinsman. 

He noticed that earnest, troubled gaze, and it restored 
him to himself as nothing else could have done. 


204 The Spell of the Enchantress. 

Of all the creatures on earth, he loved but this bright, 
beautiful girl ; of all the creatures on earth, he dreaded 
most that she should ever suspect the horrible truth. 

He started up with a ghastly smile, muttering incoher- 
ently something about recent illness, a sudden spasm, 
etc., and turned, with unnatural animation, toward his 
son-in-law-elect. 

“I looked for you this evening, Vivian,” he said, taking 
the young man’s arm, whilst his daughter walked to the 
Hall beside Colonel Drummond. “I have been anxious 
for your return. Illness, I suppose, makes the best of us 
weaker than water — nervous as tea-drinking old women. 
I give you my word,” with a hollow laugh, ‘‘the sight of 
your friend yonder, a second ago, gave me a rare start, 
simply because he bears a great resemblance to a man I 
knew twenty years ago.” 

“Ah !” Vivian said, with nonchalance. “Man’s dead, I 
suppose ?” 

“Yes,” Lord Clontarf answered, hoarsely. He had kept 
silent for a decade of years, and his secret had burned his 
very heart within him. Now he must speak or go mad. 
“Yes, he is dead — he was murdered !” 

“Ah !” Mr. Trevannance said again in his laziest tone ; 
“unpleasant, that. Who was he? Perhaps Drummond’s 
a relative.” 

“No; impossible. I speak of — of’ — he moistened his 
dry lips; the name so long unuttered seemed to choke 
him — “I speak of my cousin, Roderick Desmond. You 
have heard of him ?” 

“Why, yes, I think so. Was accused of a murder, es- 
caped, and got made away with himself, didn’t he ? Body 
never found, was it, nor the murder brought home ? By 
the by, is it quite certain he was murdered? Men sup- 
posed to have been assassinated before now have turned 
up in the most improbable manner ; at least I have read so. 
Isn’t it just possible your cousin may have absconded, 
and striven to leave the impression behind that he was 
killed?” 

Gerald Desmond looked at the speaker with eyes di- 
lated in a great horror. 

“No,” he said, huskily, his voice full of suppressed in- 
tensity; “there was no mistake; he was murdered. The 
body was flung into the sea — the sea, that will hold it until 


The Spell of the Enchantress. 205 

the judgment day. And the murder was never brought 
home — no ; you are right — and twenty year& have passed, 
and never will be now.” 

There was that in his tone which made Trevannance 
look at him curiously. The leaden hue of his face was the 
ghastly hue of death, his eyes looked straight before him 
with a wild, unnatural stare. 

“Egad !” he thought in some alarm, “I hope my worthy 
father-in-law is not going mad. Twenty years is a toler- 
able time to forget one's cousin, especially when one steps 
into that cousin’s title and estates. By Jove! I hope he 
didn’t do the thing himself. He has an uncommonly Eu- 
gene Aramish look this moment.” 

There was no chance for farther conversation ; they 
were in the drawing-room ; and Vivian Trevannance never 
dreamed that in that instant he had hit upon the truth. ' 

Lady Evelyn went in to dinner on her lover’s arm, and 
lister^ed to his murmured conversation ; but often, very 
often, her eyes wandered to the face of her father and 
Colonel Drummond ; and steadily and incessantly she 
found the earl’s furtive gaze fixed on the stranger’s face. 

For the colonel, he looked as calmly unmoved as the 
Parian Ganymede upholding the great cluster of flowers 
in the centre of the table. He was talking brilliantly and 
well. It seemed the silent colonel could talk, rather to 
Mr. Trevannance’s surprise, who had hitherto found him 
inclined to monosyllables. 

Did he see the glances his fair betrothed cast so fre- 
quently at that handsome, sun-browned, gold-bearded 
face? If so, they did not disturb his admirable equanim- 
ity. He took it for granted — the likeness of the defunct 
young lordling accounted for it. Women were all ro- 
mantic — this was romantic. He ate his dinner and made 
murmured remarks, and his appetite was not injured by 
the fact that my lady was inattentive and responded ab- 
sently, even though this was the evening of his arrival. 

He was not feverishly in love — no more was she — and 
presently, he knew not how, silence fell between them, 
and two black eyes and a saucy, merry face came to him 
from over the sea, and he found himself. wondering where 
poor little Minnette might be, alone and friendless in her 
beauty and youth, in that vast, wicked, pitiless New York. 

Perhaps Colonel Drummond, though he never seemed 


2o6 Tile Spell of the Enchantress. 

to look that way,, missed none of the glances of those won- 
drous violet eyes. Amid all his anecdotes of the Indian 
war, and of American life in city and camp, as he found 
it, he caught the flute voice of the Castilian Rose, and the 
looks directed toward him. 

He had half hoped, half dreaded. Lady Clontarf might 
appear at dinner ; she would recognize him, he was cer- 
tain ; but Lady Clontarf never dined in public now. The 
disappointment was slight; his Inez sat opposite him, in 
azure silk, with white roses in her dead-black hair, more 
beautiful than the dream of an opium-eater. He was 
Roderick Desmond, twenty years old, and hopelessly en- 
slaved once more. 

He found himself beside her once, after dinner, in the 
long suite of drawing-rooms. Many guests were at War- 
beck Hall, early as it was. County beauties, proud and 
high born, moved airily about, and cast gracious glances 
upon the American colonel ; but his eyes saw only one fair 
face that shone matchless among them all. She had been 
singing, and he had stood a little apart, drinking in those 
glorious tones, whilst the man she was to wed bent beside 
her. He looked at them both earnestly and long — the 
noble and lovely face of the Castilian girl, the handsome, 
nonchalant face of her lover, his hazy eyes full of lazy ad- 
miration and complacent proprietorship of the prettiest 
woman in the house. 

‘‘And she, fit to sit by an emperor’s side and command 
him tasks, will wed this languid Sybarite,” Colonel 
Drummond thought, bitterly. “A very good fellow, no 
doubt, an excellent husband for my Lady Clydesmore, or 
such as she ; but no more fitted to be her husband than a 
plow-boy! I was a fool to come here. Justice I shall 
have, ‘though the heavens fall.’ And yet that justice that 
tears the coronet from her father’s head, and shows him to 
the world as the perjured would-be murderer that he is, 
will break that haughty heart. And she looks at me with 
the only face I ever loved, and the old madness that I 
thought dead and done for is strong within me as ever. 
And she belongs to another man — to the friend whose 
bread I have broken, who trusts me so freely and so 
frankly. I was a fool to come ; I will be a villain if I 
stay. She does not care for the man to whom she is 
pledged, and I feel it — yes, strong as man’s instinct can 


The Spell of the Enchantress. 207 

teach him anything — that I could make her love me. Oh, 
Heaven ! in losing my birthright I have lost forever all 
that make man’s life sweet. Shall I spare Gerald Des- 
mond because the child of Inez d’Alvarez looks at me 
with those glorious eyes, with that matchless beauty ? 
No !” — his hand, hanging by his side, clenched, his eyes 
flashed — “no ! To the uttermost farthing shall he pay. I 
loved him and I trusted him ; all I had was his ; and his 
return was dishonor and death. Spare him? No! I will 
cross this threshold no more. Before this week ends my 
search for M(^gan will begin ; and when I have found 
him, then, Gerald Desmond, the dead Kathleen and the 
living Roderick Desmond will be amply avenged 1” 

But though man may propose, the woman he loves is 
very apt to dispose. Medea, the Enchantress, could con- 
jure the dead ; the stars out of heaven and the race of en- 
chantresses has not died out with her. Samson and Her- 
cules and Antony were men of might ; but Delilah and 
Omphale and Cleopatra could twist them round their 
little fingers, and make them the veriest drivelers. 

So, presently, when the stern and stalwart American 
officer found himself in a cozy nook beside Clontarf’s 
peerless daughter, all his heroic resolves melted away, 
and he was listening to the soft music of that low-trained 
voice, and dazzled and blinded by the light of the starry 
eyes and brilliant smiles. 

Trevannance, leaning against the marble of the low 
chimney-piece, and flirting with Lady Clydesmore and a 
whole group of county sirens, watched them under his 
eyelashes, and wondered a little at the gracious mood of 
her imperial ladyship. She was a haughty, exclusive 
young beauty, not in the least disposed for sudden friend- 
ships — a most unlikely subject for love at first sight; and 
yet here was Colonel Drummond, met for the first time a 
few hours ago, admitted into the magic “inner circle” of 
her regard at once. 

“Is it because of his melodramatic resemblance to the 
defunct Irish cousin, or is it because he is my friend?” 
He smiled a little at the last conceited notion. “If my 
lady loved me, that might account for it ; but she is far 
beyond any such mortal weakness. It would not be po- 
lite, I suppose, to interrupt their private conversation.” . 

He took an easier position against the mantel as the 


2o 8 The Spell of the Enchantress. 

Earl of Clontarf approached him. The Irish peer was still 
ghastly pale, and still kept that furtive but incessant watch 
upon his future son’s friend. 

“The American is inclined to monopolize,” he said, 
with a forced smile quite awful to see. “I congratulate 
you upon your freedom from the green-eyed monster. He 
is a remarkably handsome man.' 

“Best-looking man in the room, by long odds, myself 
included,” Trevannance responded, serenely. “And I’m 
not jealous, thank you. It’s a most fatij^uing passion. 
Never want to get the steam up so high as that. And I 
have every trust in my fair future bride.” 

“The more I look at him, the more his wonderful re- 
semblance to — to the person I spoke of strikes me,” the 
earl said, hastily. “If — if Roderick Desmond had lived, 
he must have looked now precisely as that man looks. 
There is something horrible in this wearing the face of the 
dead ; it is like seeing a ghost.” He laughed^ but the 
laugh was hollow and forced. “Vivian, I wish you would 
tell me all you know of him.” 

“And that ‘all’ is nothing. He is Colonel Drummond 
— he rose by his own invincible bravery from the ranks — ■ 
he is a thorough gentleman, and the best fellow I ever 
met.” 

“And this is all you know ?” 

“All, my lord.” 

“And you bring a stranger, an adventurer — a black- 
guard, probably — ^^here among your friends, a man of 
whose antecedents you are totally ignorant, and present 
him to my daughter ! Sir, such conduct ” 

“My lord,” Mr. Trevannance said, and his soft, slow 
voice contrasted strangely with the harsh, high tones of 
the other, “pray, don’t excite yourself. I regret giving 
you the great trouble of getting angry ; but, at the risk of 
doing so still farther, you will ■ permit me to say, my 
friends must always be fit associates even for the daughter 
of Lord Clontarf. What Colonel Drummond has been in 
the past, in his own country, I can not say ; what he is, I 
know — a gentleman, a scholar, and a hero.” 

“In his own country” — the earl had caught but these 
words — “in the past? What do you mean? Is he not an 
American ?” 

“No; I am quite certain he is not. English, Scotch, or 


The Spell of the Enchantress. 209 

Irish he may be, nay is — but of his birthplace and history 
I am in profoundest ignorance. That the history has been 
a singular and romantic one, I am also positive. It would 
be strange and melodramatic and sensational, and all 
that,” with a slight laugh, “if he turned out, after all, to 
be the man you think dead. It’s not likely, you know, 
but still Ah ! excuse me ; Lady Evelyn beckons.” 

He sauntered across the long room to the side of his 
fair betrothed. Drummond still held his place near her. 
He had been talking, she listening; and her cheeks were 
softly flushed, and the brilliant: eyes sweet and tender and 
the perfect lips wreathed in a thoughtful smile. 

“He has been talking of you,” she said, with the bright- 
est glance she had ever given him ; “teling me how brave- 
ly you saved his life.” 

“And what of himself? On their own merits, modest 
men are dumb, eh ? Has he told you his name was a word 
of terror with which mothers frightened their children into 
being good, as the Saracen matrons used to do with the 
name of King Richard. Was it Richard, by the way? 
Has he told you he was a host in himself, the invulnerable 
leader of the ‘Devil’s Own?’ I think of bringing out a 
book relating his exploits and immortalizing myself.” 

He had not once glanced back at his late companion. 
Had he done so, the livid horror in the earl’s colorless 
face must have strangely startled him. 

He stood glaring — yes, absolutely glaring — at the 
group, seeing only that one manly face, v/ith its rare 
beauty and gravely smiling mouth. If it were true ! if 
Roderick Desmond still lived ! if this man were he ! 

The next morning he could have laughed aloud at his 
own folly. 

“I am a fool !” he said, fiercely — “a driveling mono- 
maniac ! I fancy resemblances where resemblance there 
is none. I will put it to the test, by Heaven !” He start- 
ed up with a sudden idea. “My wife shall see this man ! 
If Roderick Desmond were alive, old and gray and hoary, 
she WQuld still know him. Dead and in his grave, he has 
still been my rival, still poisoned my life.” 

He walked resolutely away, and not once again during 
that evening did he glance in the direction where the trio 
sat. 

They held their place until the parting hour came ; and 


210 


The Spell of the Enchantress. 

when before had La Rose de Castile been so sweet and so 
gracious, so tender and so womanly, as on this night. 

She gave her hand to her lover at parting ; it lay loose 
and unresponsive in his ; then to the stranger from over 
the sea, and it thrilled as no man’s touch had ever thrilled 
it before, in his warm clasp. 

That night, as she unbound the long, rich hair, her 
maid wondered at the new light, so dreamy and indescrib- 
able, that softened the perfect beauty of my lady’s face, 
and made it radiant. And the violet eyes, whose like she 
had never seen save in her own mirror, haunted her into 
the land of dreams. She stood upon a towering cliff, whilst 
the day dawned rosily over the sea; and from the rose- 
flushed waters a form arose wearing the face of the 
stranger soldier ; and looking at her with the grave, beau- 
tiful smile and eyes, “Come !” he said, holding out his 
arms ; “my bride, my darling ! I am not dead, and I have 
waited all those years for you.” And with a heart full of 
bliss, she leaped from the cliff into those extended arms, 
and — awoke ! 

Vivian Trevannance drove his friend home in his mail- 
phaeton, and on the way discoursed of the manner in 
which his worthy parent-in-law was exercised by his un- 
common resemblance to a gentleman dead and gone. 
Colonel Drummond, sitting back with folded arms, lis- 
tened with a grim smile. 

“Tried to convince him he might be mistaken,” Tre- 
vannance said, puffing at his cigar ; “but the obstinacy of 
these elderly fellows is past belief. Told him you might 
be the dead man come to life again. They do that sort of 
thing in light literature, you know, though I don’t think, 
myself, it’s practicable.” 

“And you couldn’t convince him?” Drummond said., 
with a sardonic laugh. “How can he be so positive about 
his cousin’s murder if he didn’t see him murdered, and 
they never found the body?” 

“Put it to him,” Trevannahce drawled; “all of no use. 
You look as much like the dead man ias two peas— know 
you do, because I’ve seen his picture. Melodramatic on 
your part, as I have said before, to go about with the 
frontispiece of a dead man ; not but that it is an uncom- 
monly handsome one all the same. Wanted your biogra- 
phy, the earl did. Very sorry I couldn’t give it to him.” 


2II 


The Spell of the Enchantress. 

‘‘Couldn’t think of putting you to so much trouble, my 
friend,” the colonel said, dryly ; “and as for the earl, his 
profound interest does me proud. I shall take the liberty 
some day myself, perhaps, of pouring my humble history 
into his noble ears.” 

There was a pause ; both men puffed their cigars whilst 
they whirled through the starry beauty of the May night. 

“And what do you think of my lady. La Rose de Cas- 
tile ?” the younger man asked, abruptly. 

A -slight flush arose to the bronzed cheek of the soldier, 
but the night hid it. 

“That she is well named,” he answered, slowly. “Your 
Castilian Rose is perfect and peerless.” 

“And we are at home,” said Trevannance, as they drew 
up, and the groom came to lead away the drag. “Doesn’t 
the old place look picturesque by moonlight ?” 

His eyes kindled ; he loved every tree and stone and ivy 
spray — yes, with a deeper love than that for his fair Cas- 
tilian bride. And Colonel Drummond’s deep gaze rested 
on him for an instant with a look that was almost envious. 

“Yes,” he said, “you are a fortunate man, Vivian Trev- 
annance.” 

The other laughed gayly, and led the way himself to his 
guest’s room. A noble apartment ; a wood fire flickering 
on the tiled hearth, and rich draperies of ruby velvet 
glowing in the leaping light. 

“Good-night and fair dreams, my boy,” he said. “You 
will sleep well if you are half as drowsy as I.” 

He left him, and Robert Drummond stood before the 
fire and gazed up at a portrait over the mantel. It was a 
crayon head — an admirable likeness, though merely a 
sketch, of the Lady Evelyn Desmond. The proud, droop- 
ing eyes, the gravely smiling mouth, looked, in the fire- 
light, alive. 

Long he -stood before it entranced — the spell of the en- 
chantress was upon him, as it had been upon many men 
before, and he was held in iron gyves by its magic power. 
And when at last he undressed and lay down, it was long 
before sleep came, and he lingered and watched the flick- 
ering fire-light playing upon the lovely face of the Rose of 
Castile. 


212 


The Gypsy Girl’s Prophecy. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THK GYPSY GIRCs PROPHE^CY. 

. “Scarlet wins ! Blue's ahead ! No, no, no ! Purple 
and Gold has it! Ten to one on Castilian Rose! Purple 
and Gold wins ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! Castilian Rose wins !” 

It was the spring meeting. The ring was thronged, 
the uproar was deafening. The excitement and betting 
were immense, all the horse racing squires of the county 
mustered there, and beauty looked down from the grand- 
stand, and craned its white neck and flashed its bright 
eyes and felt its heart sink or rise according as it had won 
or lost its bets of best Jouvins. For Scarlet, and Blue, 
and Yellow were ignominiously beaten, and Purple and 
Gold rode in winner. Castilian Rose, a bay beauty, with 
slender legs and brilliant eyes, had^ won the race. Cas- 
tilian Rose could belong to no one, of course, but Vivian 
Trevannance. The little mare, entered for the spring 
meeting, had surpassed even his expectations ; but his in- 
dolent smile was as indolent as ever, and his nonchalant 
glance never altered whilst huzzas rent the air, and men 
on the turf below seemed going mad with excitement. 

“Rather a close thing, that finish,” he murmured, gent- 
ly. “I thought King Cheops would have had it. I might 
have known, though, that the bay mare, so named, could 
not be beaten. Castilian Rose must always win.” 

Lady Evelyn Desmond shrugged her shoulders a trifle 
disdainfully. She had sat there on the grand-stand, be- 
tween her lover and Colonel Drummond, and there had 
been very little of interest in the violet eyes that followed 
her colors over the field. She had come there because she 
could not very well stay away ; but whether her name- 
sake won or lost the great race was a matter of very little 
interest to her. 

Colonel Drummond stood beside her. Yes, though two 
weeks had gone since that night on which he had made 
his heroic resolves, Hercules lingered still by the dist:.fl 
of Omphale. He could not go. The fascination that held 


The Gypsy GirPs Prophecy. 213 

him was a sorcery he was powerless to resist. The long 
bitter years of desolation and loneliness, and lost heritage, 
had dropped away from him like a cloud — his youth had 
returned, and the woman he worshipped once more 
smiled upon him, with dazzling eyes and sweet, gentle 
lips. He loved as he had never loved before — nay, not 
Inez d’Alvarez — this regal beauty, whose invincible cold- 
ness and pride had yielded to him as they had never yield- 
ed before to mortal man. He had made his resolution in 
all good faith — he meant to keep it honestly — would have 
kept it but for the power of circumstances. And to the 
power of circumstances we are all, the best and bravest of 
us, abject subjects. To linger there, and meet her father 
day after day, her mother, perhaps, would have been sim- 
ply impossible ; but, on the day following his arrival, 
pressing business of a political nature had called the con- 
valescent peer back to town, and he had but returned 
upon this morning. For my lady, she was a confirmed 
invalid, just able to move about her apartments and no 
more. Her friends visited her there, her future son-in-law 
among the rest ; but the American officer, of course, she 
had never seen. Her life hung but by a thread ; not for 
worlds would Lady Evelyn have let her mother meet the 
man who so strangely wore the face of the lover of her 
youth. And so he had lingered, yielding to the solicita- 
tions of his friend and host, and gave himself up to the 
spell of the siren. They met daily, at dinner and evening 
parties, boating and riding excursions, improvised pic- 
nics, and pilgrimages to ruins — they met daily, and why 
her. heart quickened its beatings, and why the world 
looked a brighter and fairer place than ever before. Eve- 
Ivn Desmond never thought nor asked herself. She knew 
that a dreamy and novel bliss filled her life ; that she could 
listen and never weary whilst Colonel Drhmmond talked ; 
tliat she had learned to search for his tall form and grave, 
noble face in crowded rooms, and to find them wearily 
empty if he were not there. She knew it vaguely, but it 
was all so new and strange to her that as yet she had not 
dreamed that at last — she loved. As her gaze wandered 
over the surging throng below, a face and figure she knew 
arrested her attention. It was the striking figure of a 
gypsy girl, all robed in scarlet and blue, with gilt orna- 
ments flashing in the sun rays, a crimson silk handker- 


214 


The Gypsy Girl’s Prophecy. 

chief knotted over her blue-black hair and her dusk face 
strikingly picturesque from its flowing drapery. 

“Look/' she said, touching her lover’s arm ; “do you 
remember that face ?" 

“The gypsy, by Jove! who told us our fortune a year 
ago. Plow handsome and stately she is ! Looks like an 
Indian princess, or a picture by Velasquez or Van — what's 
his name? Didn't come true — did they — her predic- 
tions ?’' 

“I have forgotten what they were," Lady Evelyn said, 
carelessly. “Have you ever had your horoscope cast, 
Colonel Drummond? If not, now is the time. You will 
never find a, fairer seeress." 

“My fortune was told twenty years ago," the Ameri- 
can officer said, with his grave smile ; “the future I think 
I can predict for myself. Your dusky sybil might easily 
tempt a more hopeful man. See that strange figure 
speaking to her now." 

A wretched-looking vagrant, leaning on a stick, his 
face shaded by a battered hat, had hobbled up and ad- 
dressed her. She turned from him and looked up at the 
grand-stand with dark, earnest eyes, as though he had 
spoken of them. The eyes of the vagrant turned, too, in 
that direction — red, fiery eyes, full of fierce hate now, as 
they fixed on the face of the Earl of Clontarf. 

“Ay, there he stands, the cowardly murderer, the per- 
jured traitor, high in honor among the great, titled, and 
wealthy, looking down on honest men like dogs. I won- 
der if he thinks — the mighty Earl of Clontarf — as another 
of his order once said : ‘All men are equal on the turf, 
and — under it?' There he stands, and one-and-twenty 
years almost have passed since Kathleen O’Neal and 
Roderick Desmond found the seas their winding-sheets, 
and still he lives and prospers. And they say there is an 
avenging Heaven after that." 

He hobbled away with a last baleful glance of hate. 
He never looked at the others— he plunged away among 
the crowd, soliciting alms with the true professional whine 
of the beggar tribe. 

As the ladies and gentlemen swept down from the 
grand-stand through the field, the handsome gypsy came 
suddenly up to them and confronted Vivian Trevannance. 


THe Gypsy GirPs Prophecy. 215 

^‘My pretty gentleman, let the poor gypsy tell your for- 
tune.” 

Vivian laughed — Lady Evelyn, upon his arm, shrank 
ever so slightly back. 

‘‘My pretty gypsy, I think I have had the pleasure of 
hearing you speer fortunes before, and — it was a waste of 
silver. They didn’t come true.” 

“But they will come true,” the fortune-teller answered, 
loftily. “Redempta speaks but what the stars have writ- 
ten. Let me see your hand.” 

He laughed again at the imperious tone, and yielded. 
The dark-eyed prophetess bent above it and peered into 
the womanly palm. When she lifted her head her eyes 
flashed. 

“It has come true,” she said, transfixing him with 
those glittering eyes. “You have found the love of your 
life in a land beyond the sea — found her and left her. Re- 
dempta knows the past as well as the future. My pretty 
lady, let me tell for you.” 

But Lady Evelyn waved her back, proudly and coldly. 

“No ; we have had enough of this folly. Stand aside 
and allow us to pass on.” 

“Ah ! you are haughty, my pretty lady, and you will 
not let me look in that dainty palm because you fear to. 
Yes, fear, my lady, though fearless blood runs in your 
veins — you fear the truth, fear your own heart. Your 
hand is to go to one, while your heart is given to another. 
My gentleman, shall I not predict for you ?” She turned 
with swift, subtle grace to Colonel Drummond, coming 
up at the moment with Lady Clydesmore. 

“A gypsy !” cried her vivacious ladyship ; “and, Mon 
Dieu ! such a pretty one ! Oh, I know she can tell the 
future for certain, and we must have our fortunes told. 
Cross her palm, colonel, with a piece of silver, and let her 
predict. I am dying to know what is in store for you, you 
mysterious man.” 

A group had gathered — Lord Clydesmore and Lord 
Clontarf among them. The former paused, smiling at his 
airy wife’s chatter, the latter with an intensity of eagerness 
under the circumstances quite absurd. And Lady Evelyn 
paused also, with a sudden impulse of absorbing interest. 
Colonel Drummond smiled and obeyed. The gypsy took 


2i 6 The Gypsy GirPs Prophecy. 

his hand and gazed long and earnestly into the myriad 
lines. 

‘‘I see here a strangely checkered past — very bright, 
very dark — strange and tragical. A hand has been lifted 
against your life; some strong and deadly enemy has 
darkened your past; but the power of that enemy is at 
an end. The clouds are behind ; the sun shines brightly 
before ; the close will compensate for the beginning.” 

She dropped his hand. 

Did she speak at random? Or did his face tell her, 
keenly skilled in physiognomy, of that darkened, bitter 
past? It startled even him. He turned and looked 
straight into the eyes of that “strong and deadly enemy.” 
And the earl was as white as a dead man. Dady Evelyn 
drew a long, tremulous breath, and her lover felt her un- 
conscious, tightened grasp upon his arm relax. 

“Vague,” he said — “vague as the Delphic oracle, and 
mysterious — very. I knew there was a mystery, and a 
tragedy, and a romance, and all that sort of thing, hidden 
away in Drummond’s life, and now — ‘oh, my prophetic 
soul!’ — here we have it for a fact. Colonel, I beg to con- 
gratulate you* upon the brilliant, sunlit prospective spread- 
ing before you.” 

But whilst he spoke, voice and face matchlessly serene, 
he was filled with a strange, secret dread. Was it only 
chance — this truth she had told himself — and what did 
my Lady Evelyn think of it? He glanced at her; the 
beautiful face looked still and pale, and kept its secrets 
well. 

“Shall we go?” she said, briefly. “Or must we stay in 
the hot sun among the crowd, listening further to this 
folly?” 

“I beg your pardon — the fault has been mine. Do you 
return with Miss Albemarle in the phaeton, or will you 
ride with me?” 

“I will ride, if you wish it.” 

A vague twinge of remorse shot through her whilst 
she spoke. A dim consciousness of her own infidelity of 
thought to the man she must wed was beginning to dawn 
upon her. For Redempta’s words to him she was far too 
proud to ask for any explanation, even had she believed 
them. 


The Gypsy GirPs Propliecy. 217 

He led her to a shaded seat under some silver beeches, 
whilst the remainder of the party sauntered up. 

“We will wait here,” he said, “until the groom leads 
round the horses. Ah !” with his slight laugh, “the gal- 
lant colonel is to be my Lady Clydesmore’s cavalier on 
the return journey. My lord is the most confiding of 

men, and my lady ” He stopped and glanced at his 

lady. There was no answering smile in her face — a face 
as unreadable as though carved in marble. 

The colonel and Lady Clydesmore had ridden away and 
were out of sight ere Trevannance^s servant led up the 
two horses. He assisted her into the saddle, and they gal- 
loped away, flashing past the long line of carriages, after 
the pair had gone. 

The pair who had gone were very much engrossed with 
one another on this especial occasion, although my lady 
had the conversation almost exclusively to herself. 

She flirted with the handsome soldier, certainly ; she ad- 
mired him immensely, and made no secret of it; but she 
also saw, with woman’s sharp-sightedness, the secret he 
fondly thought buried deep in his own heart. And liking 
him, and interested in him, my lady pitied him in her own 
secret heart, and began to wish he would go away. 

“He is such a splendid fellow, you know, Ernest,” she 
said, with charming candor, to her husband — for of 
course, wife^like, she told him at once of her great dis- 
covery, “that it’s a pity to see him falling into the Slough 
of Despair where La Rose de Castile casts her victims. 
If he were mine, now, he might recover and be none the 
worse for it — they always do,” her ladyship said, making 
a little wry face, “but Lady Evelyn’s list of wounded 
seemed never to convalesce. There was poor Amethyst, 
you know — his career in Paris, and Vienna, and Baden- 
Baden has been something shocking since she refused 
him. And Major Langley, of the Guards, he has ex- 
changed and gone out to India; and, of course, the first 
thing we hear, natives, or tigers, or cobras, or something 
will make an end of him. It’s been so with dozens ; and 
the worst of it is they all belonged to me first. T never 
loved a dear gazelle,’ etc.; and now I mean Colonel 


2 i 8 The Gypsy Girl’s Prophecy. 

Drummond . shall not lose his head and break his heart 
for " 

'‘For a beauty as cold as the Diana of the Louvre — 
very philanthropic of you, my dear,” his lordship said, 
drowsily. 

“Ah!” my lady responded, with a wise, little, womanly 
nod, “I’m not so sure of that, either. She doesn’t know it 
herself; and he doesn't know it; but the sooner Colonel 
Drummond departs, the better for her peace of mind 
also.” 

“Good heavens, Beatrice !” — Lord Clydesmore choked 
a yawn, and sat erect, staring — “you never mean to 


But his lady closed his mouth with a kiss and a laugh. 

“Of course not, you precious old stupid ! Only I shall 
take the very earliest opportunity to tell the handsome 
colonel of the grand preparations for the wedding, and 
that it is to take place in June. Now go to sleep.” 

That opportunity has come to-day, and in the most 
natural, most of¥-hand way imaginable. Lady Clydesmore 
chattered of the grand preparations, and the grand wed- 
ding to come. 

“It will be an eminently suitable match, I think,” she 
said, gayly. “I’ve known Evelyn and Vivian so long — 
both are the soul of honor and integrity, and very strong- 
ly attached to each other. It will be a very happy union. 
You stop for the wedding, of course. Colonel Drum- 
mond ?” 

She looked him full in the face as she said it. He was 
deadly white and his lips under his auburn beard were 
rigidly compressed. 

“No,” he said ; “ I leave at once — at once !” he repeated, 
sternly, “as I should have left long since.” 

Lady Clydesmore’s answer was a startled cry. 

“What is that?” she exclaimed, whirling round in her 
saddle. 

Colonel Drummond turned on the same impulse, and 
echoed that cry of alarm at the sight he saw. 

The horse of Lady Evelyn, a wild-blooded, half-tamed 
.thing at best, had taken fright at some obstruction, and 
darted off like an arrow. 

There was very little real danger, perhaps; the high 


The Gypsy Girl’s Prophecy. 219 

courage of the earl’s daughter stood her in good stead — 
she sat erect and firm in the saddle, grasping the reins, 
white and still. But the lightning-like rapidity with which 
she flew over the ground — the earth a black, flying sheet 
beneath her — made her sick and faint. Her head reeled, 
the reins fell, and, with a dizzy sense of blindness, she felt 
herself falling headlong from the saddle. But swifter than 
her fall, swift as his love for her. Colonel Drummond had 
flung himself off his own horse, and caught her in his 
arms as she reeled and fell. 

“My love — my love ! you are safe !” 

He forgot everything — honor even — everything but 
that he loved her, and that her life for an instant had been 
in danger. And at the words, the eyes, which had been 
closing, opened and looked up into his. 

She did not answer ; he spoke no more. But, with that 
sudden, startled look, the truth was revealed to both. He 
loved her — she loved him. He let her go and she leaned 
dizzily against a wayside tree. He offered his arm, but 
she shook her head and turned away. On the instant 
Trevannance dashed up, white with horror, and flung 
himself beside her. 

“My darling! Thank God you are saved !” 

She smiled faintly and turned to him. Lady Clydes- 
more joined them as he spoke, with wild eyes and many 
exclamations. 

“It was very weak and silly of me,” Lady Evelyn said, 
forcing a smile, “to turn dizzy. But for that I could have 
managed Roseleaf well enough. However, I am not in 
the least the worse ^^r his escapade, so pray don’t make a 
victim of me. Here comes the phaeton. I think I’ll take 
the vacant seat with Ethel Albemarle. My nerves are just 
a trifle shaken.” 

She did not once look at her preserver; she made no 
attempt to thank him. She entered the phaeton, and her 
lover rode by her side, still pale and full of blame for him- 
self. And the American officer vaulted again into the 
saddle, and galloped homeward beside Lady Clydesmore ; 
and, strange to relate, her volatile ladyship did not speak 
one word till they reached Warbeck Hall. 

Colonel Drummond refused every entreaty to enter ; he 
went straight to Royal Rest with his host. Both men 
were pale and rather gloomy — one, full of passionate self- 


220 The Gypsy GirPs Prophecy. 

reproach and remorse — the other, with a dim, disagree- 
able impression of the truth dawning upon him. 

“1 must leave you to-morrow morning,” the American 
officer said, briefly, once on the way. “I have to thank 
your friendship and hospitality for many pleasant hours ; 
but my men and my duty are out yonder on the Western 
plains. It is the life after all best worth living — best suit - 
ed to me. I should have gone long since.” 

Trevannance bowed gravely — murmured some polite 
and meaningless platitudes about needless haste, regret, 
etc., which the other scarcely heard. 

“And the business which brought you ovef?” Trevan- 
nance asked, as they rode up the avenue. 

“That I have given up,” the other responded, quietly. 
“My plans have changed of late. I shall return to Amer- 
ica at once.” 

They separated and went to their respective rooms, the 
colonel to pack his belongings with his own hands, Vivian 
to dress for dinner. In the midst of the colonel’s labor, 
his host’s valet tapped at the door and entered. 

“My master’s compliments, M’sieur Colonel, and will 
you drive with him to Scarsdale ? The drag is waiting.” 

The two men had a dinner engagement for that even- 
ing, which the colonel had completely forgotten. 

“Tell your master to be good enough to make my apol- 
ogies, Antoine,” he said, looking up from his work. “I 
do not dine at Scarsdale Hall to-day.” 

The Swiss valet bowed. 

“Will not M’sieur Colonel permit me to do that? I am 
altogether disengaged.” 

“Thanks, no ; I am accustomed to wait upon myself. 
We don’t employ valets out there on the Plains,” with half 
a laugh, “and by the by, Antoine, permit me to offer you 
this, in consideration of your many kind offices, since my 
sojourn here.” 

But M. Antoine drew himself up with dignity. 

“Monsieur le Colonel, the pleasure has been mine. I 
need no recompense for the very trifling services I have 
had the honor of rendering you. If monsieur will permit 
me, I will express my deep regret that he leaves us so 
soon.” 

“Ah, no doubt ! And you will take this, I know, as a 
remembrance.” 


321 


The Gypsy Girl’s Prophecy. 

• Antoine bowed once more profoundly, as his palm 
closed over the golden tokens. 

“Monsieur is all goodness ! If there is anything I can 
do 

“Nothing!” Drummond interrupted hastily; “but de- 
liver my message to your master at once.” 

The valet left the room, and the colonel resumed his 
packing. It did not take long — the May sunset was at its 
brightest when he had done. He looked at his watch, 
paced up and down a few moments in deep thought, then 
hastily rang the bell. 

“Saddle my horse and bring him round at once,” was 
his order. “Has your master gone ?” 

“Yes ; half an hour ago,” the- servant said. 

And, his command being obeyed, in a few minutes he 
was riding rapidly in the direction of Warbeck Hall. 

“One must not steal away like a thief,” he muttered, be- 
tween his teeth. “Besides, after what escaped me to-day, 
I must explain before we part forever.” 

The early twilight was falling like a silvery mist as he 
strode into the long, dusky drawing-room, and dispatched 
his card by a servant to the Lady Evelyn Desmond. 

“Tell her I come to say farewell,” he added. “I will de- 
tain her but a moment.” 

He walked to one of the long, lace-draped windows 
overlooking the park, with rich, dark ivy and dog-roses 
clustering thick around it. Farther than he could see 
spread a fair vista of lawn and woodland, with the glim- 
mer of running water, and the scent of wild, sweet roses. 
Faint and far off the nightingales sang their jug-jug, and 
beyond all, the waning May moon glittered in a violet sky, 
with the pale evening star in its silver beauty, near. The 
fair, calm beauty of the English landscape, photographed 
itself on his memory forever. 

“I will see it again in dreams,” he thought, “under the 
stars of the prairies, or among the Western wilds, or, per- 
haps, when some Indian bullet, ends a life of little use to 
any one on earth.” 

“You wished to see me — you are going away?” a low, 
soft voice murmured. He had not heard her, so ab- 
sorbed had he been. She had crossed the length of the 
room without sound. She stood beside him, glancing up 
with dark, startled eyes into his face. He turned and 


222 


The Gypsy Girl’s Prophecy. 

looked at her, as men look their last on what they love 
best. She was dressed for dinner, in trailing violet silk, 
with pearls on the arched throat, and white roses in the 
dead-black hair. How beautiful she was ! No wonder 
men had gone near to the gates of death for love of her. 
“Is it true,’’ she asked, a tremor in the sweet voice. “Do 
you really go so soon ?” 

“Would to God I had gone long ago!” he burst forth, 
passionately. “Would God I had never come I I should 
not then have been false to friendship and to honor. I 
should not then have said the words I was mad enough 
and base enough to say to you to-day. But in your dan- 
ger I forgot everything else. Lady Evelyn, the only ex- 
piation I can make is to go and never look upon your face 
again ; to carry my secret with me, and bury it with me 
when I die, in the land I have left. Will you say farewell, 
and ‘I forgive you,’ before I go ?” 

She had grown white as death, cold as death. She 
stood listening to him, fixed and rigid as stone, her eyes 
looking straight out at the misty moonrise, and seeing 
nothing. 

“You do not speak. I have been too mad and pre- 
sumptuous, and my sin — of loving you — is beyond par- 
don. Well, I deserve it. I have been false to the friend 
whose bread I have broken ; false from the first instant I 
looked upon your face. I, a penniless soldier of fortune, 
have dared to love Lord Clontarf’s priceless daughter. 
Yes, silent s^orn is surely answer enough for me I” 

She turned and looked at him. The depths of self- 
scorn, and something she could not understand in his 
tone, roused her. 

“What do you mean?” she said, slowly. “You are 
good enough, great enough, noble enough, for a princess ! 
But you are right — you must go, and at once. I can echo 
your prayer — it would have been better you had never 
come — better for you — better- — for me.” 

Her voice broke over the last words. But his face 
lighted, his eyes glowed. 

“Lady Evelyn,” he cried, “for pity’s sake, tell me — had 
you been free, had I been of your own rank, could you 
have learned to love me ?” 

The violet eyes turned to him full of great reproach. 

“It is cruel to ask that,” she said ; “but if it will com- 


In tlie Tents of the Gypsies. 223 

fort you any — yes. Had I been free — Oh, why speak of 
this? As for rank, you are only greater than I, better, 
braver, nobler ! I never knew until to-day, what a base, 
utterly despicable creature I am — weak and unstable as 
water. See what I have done ! To please my father, I 
have given myself to a man I do not love — an honorable 
gentleman, who trusts me and believes in me. I have 
plighted my word, and see how I keep it. No one — not 
he, when he hears this — and hear it he must — can despise 
me as I despise myself. It is useless wishing we had never 
met. Our expiation, as you say, must be in parting at 
once and forever. Farewell, Colonel Drummond! For- 
get me ; I am not worthy of any good man’s regard.” 

She extended her right hand, the other covered her 
face. He spoke no word ; he raised the hand she extended 
to his lips. It was his silent adieu. A moment later and 
she was alone. She stood there long, rigid, and still. The 
ringing of the dinner-bell aroused her ; the heart breaks, 
but we must dine. She turned mechanically and walked 
away. At the same instant a recumbent figure raised it- 
self from the wilderness of ivy and tangled fern and roses 
beneath the window. It was Vivian Trevannance, there 
by the merest accident, and who had heard every word. 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN TH^ TEJNTS OI? THE) GYPSIES. 

The man who called himself Colonel Drummond 
mounted his horse and rode away from the lodge-gate, 
whither he neither knew nor cared. Never before — no, 
not when doomed to a felon’s death for the murder of 
Kathleen O’Neal — not when the woman he was to wed, 
the coronet he should have worn, the friend who should 
have been as a brother, were all alike false and lost to 
him — had the bitterness at his heart been so deep and 
deadly as now. For at twenty we love but lightly, and 
though otir hearts are well-nigh broken to-day, Youth 
and Hope heal the wound, and we smile and eat our din- 
ner to-morrow, and postpone suicide and despair to a 
more auspicious season. But at forty, with buoyant 
youth behind us, love is deeper and sorrow stronger, and 


224 III tlie Tents of the Gypsies. 

not all the College of Physicians can heal the wounds the 
winged god inflicts. He rode on, through the starry May 
night, whither his horse chose to go. He had given up 
everything in his lost love for this plighted bride of an- 
other — the hope of the past twenty years, the vindication 
of his honor, the eternal resignation of his rights. Gerald 
Desmond he would not have spared. Justice to the utmost 
farthing he had come prepared to wring from him, when 
Morgan should be found and make confession; but her 
father he could not injure — it was simply impossible. The 
disgrace that fell upon him must blight her life forever — ■ 
the just retribution that would give him back his birth- 
right would bow that queenly head for evermore in sor- 
row and shame. No. As he had come, he must return — 
as he had lived, he must die — nameless and unknown. 

“For your sake, my love!” he murmured, inwardly, 
“your father — even yours — is sacred from me.” 

He had ridden for hours ; his horse falling lame was 
the first thing that awoke him from his semi-trance. He 
looked around him as a man rousing from a dream. The 
country was all strange to him — a wooded heath spread 
away on either hand — a vast and solitary place — and the 
night had fallen long since; 

-He dismounted and examined the animal : it had cast a 
shoe and walked lame. He glanced around him. Far 
away, twinkling among the trees like will-o’-the-wisps, he 
caught the sparkle of lights. 

“Gypsies!” he thought. “Well, as there appears to be 
no village near, I will try them.” 

He led his horse slowly over the turfy heath. The 
place grew more familiar as he went on, and he knew it 
was half a dozen miles beyond the town, and near the 
race-course. The gypsies, who had congregated for the 
races, had pitched their tents here among the trees ; the 
lights he had seen was their tent-fires. 

It was a strangely picturesque scene as he drew near — 
a scene of bustle, too. Over the nearest fire a huge 
cauldron hissed, and the savory odor of stewing rabbit 
and hare reached him from afar off. Dark browed Arabs 
lay stretched, smoking, on the ground, or the most in- 
dustfious tinkering their wares for the morrow. Women, 
ugly and old for the most part, flitter to and fro in the 


In the Tents of the Gypsies. 225 

ruddy firelight— the whole like a picture of Salvator Rosa 
or Rembrandt. 

Around one tent a little group was gathered, and a 
donkey-cart stood, near, the driver perched on his seat 
as though waiting for a load. As Drummond stood gaz-‘ 
ing, he saw two gypsy men come forth from the tent, 
bearing between them, stretched on a rude hurdle, the 
body of a man. The soldier watched in wonder. 

“Is he dead?’’ he thought, “and are they going to bury 
him? By Jove, I’ll see!” 

He strode :^orward at once into their midst. The men 
and women paused in their work to stare at the gentle- 
man who came amongst them like an apparition, leading 
his horse. 

“What is all this?” he demanded. “Whom have you 
here, my good fellows ?” 

He looked authoritatively into the donkey-cart. Two 
eyes, dulled with great pain, gleamed up at him from an 
unshaven, ghastly face — a face full of infinite misery. 

“Poor wretch !” the soldier said, involuntarily. “He is 
not dead, then. What’s the matter?” 

“Met with an accident to-day on the race-course,” a 
young woman said, rapidly, coming forward. It was the 
dark-eyed Redempta, the queen of the wandering tribes. 
“He is of your people, not ours, though he has dwelt in 
our tents and broken our bread. He will not live four- 
and-twenty hours, and he must not die here with us. Your 
people in the town yonder would think little of accusing 
the vagabond gypsies of murder. So we send him 
thither to breathe his last. He can speak for himself still 
and acquit us of blame.” 

Drummond bowed his head gravely. There was a 
stately dignity about this Zingara queen that impressed 
him. 

“How did it happen?” he asked. 

“He was drunk — he is always drunk; a carriage-pole 
struck him and knocked him down. The wheels passed 
over him and broke both legs ; but the wound in the left 
side from the pole is the worst. They drove on — gay 
young gentlemen — what was the beggar-tramp to them? 
We brought him here. I have looked at his wounds. He 
will not live to see another night.” 

“Poor wretch I . And where are you taking him ?” 


226 


In the Tents of the Gypsies. 

“There is a low inn in the town where he thinks they 
will let him lie. He has spent all his earnings there, and 
they knew him in better days. He was once rich, he says, 
and a lawyer.” 

“And fallen so low! What is his name?” 

“That we do not know. Ask himself — he can speak 
and may tell you.” 

Drummond. .bent over him. The dulled eyes looked 
straight up at the starry sky with a blank, piteous misery ! 
very dreadful to see. But it was not that misery that 
made Drummond recoil, that drove the blood from his 
face, and stilled the very beating of his heart ; for, be- 
grimed and haggard, and aged, and ghastly, through rags 
and filth, he knew him still — the man he had left America 
to find — the man who had sworn his life away — the man 
who had murdered fair Kathleen — William Morgan ! 

Yes, William Morgan ! He stood for a moment or two, 
dumb with his great surprise, staring blankly down at that 
drawn, corpse-like face. 

The keen black eyes of the young gypsy woman 
watched him with brilliant intelligence. 

“You recognize him,” she said, coolly. “You have 
known him in days gone by?” 

Her words aroused him. At last ! at last ! the ven- 
geance he had come to. seek, the vengeance he had re- 
signed, was here at his hand. 

The blood flushed darkly into his face, then receded, 
leaving him ashen white, with the might of a great temp- 
tation. 

“You know him!” Redempta repeated; “but he has not 
found a friend.” 

“He has,” the soldier said, sternly ; “the dying and the 
dead have no enemies. Morgan !” he bent over him, and 
uttered the name in his ear. 

“Who calls?” The v^ounded man started and glared 
around in affright. “Morgan? that’s my name. Who 
knows me here?” 

.His eyes fixed full upon that brave, gallant face bend- 
ing above him, with the silvery moon-rays bright upon 
it. An awful horror crossed his own — there was a chok- 
ing, gurgling cry — and the conscience-stricken wretch 
fell backward in a death-like faint. 

The short summer night had worn away, and the dawn 


In the Tents of the Gypsies. 227 

of the first June morning was rosy in the eastern sky, 
when he awoke from that deadly swoon or stupor. 

He lay in the best chamber of the Httle inn, whither 
Drummond had seen him conveyed, and two strange faces 
bent over him — the village .doctor and the rector. The 
dull eyes wandered from face to face ; memory and intelli- 
gence came slowly back. He was in little pain now. 
Death, the mercifub was close at hand. 

“Where is he?” he asked in a husky whisper. 

‘‘Whom, my poor fellow?” the rector said, drawing 
nearer. 

“Lord Roderick. He has been dead twenty years, but 
I saw him and heard him last night.” 

The rector glanced at the doctor. 

“Is his mind wandering?” he asked. 

“Must be,” the physician responded ; “although he 
looks as if his mind were clear. There is no such person, 
my man,” he said; “the gypsies sent you here. You are 
dying — do you know it? This gentleman is a clergyman 
— :if you have anything to say to him, best say it at once. 
Your hours on earth are few.” 

He took his hat and left the room as he spoke. In the 
little inn-yard he found Colonel Drummond pacing to 
and fro. 

“Well?” he asked. 

“He has recovered from his long semi-trance, and spo- 
ken. His mind seems wandering, though ; he asked for 
some Lord Roderick. My duties call me away — I can 
be of no use — he will not live two hours. Mr. Hall is 
with him. If you know him, and have anything to say 
to the poor wretch, colonel, best see him and say it at 
once.” 

The doctor hurried away— the colonel entered the 
house. As he went softly into the room of death, the 
clergyman met him on the threshold with a very grave 
face. 

“He seems in great mental anguish and remorse,” he 
said in a whisper. “He has a confession to make, he 
says, and cannot die with it upon his soul. Twenty years 
ago he committed — good heavens! — a horrible murder, 
for which an innocent man suffered through his perjury. 
I am a magistrate, as you know, and must take his dying 
deposition. Will you stay in the room? In all my cler- 


228 


In tlie Tents of the Gypsies. 

ical experience, I never attended the death-bed of a mur- 
derer before, and I pray God never may again. I have 
a nervous horror of being alone with this dying wretch.” 

“I will stay,” Colonel Diummond said, very, very pale; 
“he need not see me. I should have remained in any 
case.” 

He crossed over to the little curtained window at the 
head of the bed and seated himself. Leaning his chin on 
his hand, he watched the rosy glory of the bright new 
day, and listened to the words that vindicated his honor, 
and left his name, tarnished for twenty long years, stain- 
less once more. 

The rector drew up a little table close to the bedside, 
pen, ink, and paper before him, and prepared to take 
down the deposition of the dying man. The words came 
slowly and with difficulty, but clear and unhesitating, 
freezing the poor rector with horror as he wrote. 

“It was one-and-twenty years ago,” Morgan said — “ah, 
Heaven ! it seems twenty centuries — since I practiced as 
attorney in Clontarf, County Wicklow, Ireland. I was a 
young man then — thirty, or thereabouts ; my name is 
William Morgan, and I am English by birth. I practiced 
my profession in Clontarf — I was land-agent for Sir 
Robert Young, doing well and amassing money, and 
hated, as most land-agents are, in Ireland. There was a 
young girl in the place, Kathleen O’Neal by name, a poor 
cotter’s daughter, with whom I fell in love. She laughed 
at me — she refused to listen to me — she would not be 
my wife. She loved, in her turn, one who did not care 
for her — Lord Roderick Desmond, only son of the Earl 
of Clontarf, the betrothed husband of the Spanish lady, 
Inez d’Alvarez.” 

The rector dropped his pen aghast. 

“Good God !” he cried. “Do you know of whom you 
speak? The lady is alive yet — she is the Countess of 
Clontarf.” 

The wounded man grinned horribly, a ghastly smile. 

“She goes by that title,” he said, “though I strongly 
doubt whether she has any legal right to it. That has 
nothing to do with my story, however. Kathleen would 
not listen to me, the odious English attorney, because she 
worshipped the brilliant young Lord of Clontarf, with his 


In the Tents of the Gypsies. 229 

fair woman’s face and blue eyes ; and he, in his turn, loved 
the Spanish donna. 

“He was the darling of the gods ; they all adored him — 
the women — old and young, for his beauty and his bright- 
ness, while I hated him as I hated the devil; and his 
cousin, Gerald Desmond, hated him still more. Don’t 
drop your pen and stare ! I know Gerald Desmond is Earl 
of Clontarf to-day, and your friend, very likely; but for 
all that, he is the most infernal villain out of ” 

“My good man! my good man!” interposed the rector 
in horror. 

“Well, don’t cry out before you’re hurt. He is, though, 
for air that. At last I got Kathleen’s father completely 
in my power, and I used that power without mercy. I 
drove her half wild with fear. She was in blank despair, 
too, at the approaching nuptials of Lord Roderick and 
Donna Inez, and, in very desperation, she consented at 
last to be my wife. But after that promise she met him — 
she loved him as devotedly as ever. I was mad with 
jealousy, and I had very good cause. One day I met 
her in a lonely woodland place, on the banks of a narrow 
river. We called it the boundary stream. I charged her 
with her falsity to me— her love for Roderick Desmond. 
She could not deny it — she gloried in it. 

“ ‘I have loved him all my life — I will love him till I 
die !’ were her words. ‘I do not want to be your wife. If 
you possess one spark of manliness, you will set me free. 
I tell you, as your wife, T ' ill still love him. I would die 
for him — my beautiful dariing!’ 

“Were these words not enough to madden any one? I 
seized a sharp-pointed stone, that the devil himself seemed 
to have laid ready to my hand, and, in a paroxysm of 
fury, I struck her on the temple and hurled her headlong 
into the stream. She sank like a stone. Oh, God ! I see 
her face now, as she looked her last on me — a smile on 
her lips, her eyes bright with her love for him. I left the 
accursed spot. I was cool and calm enough then. I 
went straight to her father’s cottage and asked for her. 
She had been absent all day, he said, he knew not where. 
Search was made. One of the village officials went 
straight to the spot. It was an old haunt of hers, and 
there we came upon Lord Roderick Desmond drawing the 
dead body out of the water. I flew into a frenzy of rage — 


230 In the Tents of the Gypsies, 

I saw my way clear at once — I laid hold of him and ac- 
cused him of the murder. He shook me off as if I had 
been a viper ; but vipers have their fangs, and bitterly he 
felt mine. That eyening I met Gerald Desmond, his arch- 
enemy, too. I thought he looked at me strangely. I had 
always distrusted him, but I never feared him before. 
Something in his sinister eyes made me fear him now. I 
had good reason. He summoned me down to the shore, 
and there alone on the sands he told me he had seen all — 
he knew me a murderer. 

T was on the opposite side of the stream,’ he said, 
‘hidden in the thicket. I saw your meeting ; I heard your 
words; I saw you strike the blow; I saw you fling her 
down to her death. William Morgan, I can have you 
hung as high as Haman at the next assizes.’ 

“ ‘But you will not,’ I said, boldly. I was horribly 
frightened, but something in his face gave me hope. ‘You 
will not,’ I said. ‘You would rather hang your cousin.’ 
I cannot tell you what he said in reply ; it made even my 
blood run cold. He had hated him with man’s deepest 
and bitterest hatred for years — for hi? rank, which he 
coveted, for the woman he was to wed, whom he coveted 
still more. On one condition would he spare me — that I 
swore his cousin’s life away. Well, I consented — ^all that 
a man hath will he give for his life’ — and I hated him 
with all my soul myself. Suffice it to say that the trial 
came on. Perjury was as nothing to Gerald Desmond 
and I. I tell you solemnly, with my dying breath, we 
both swore falsely again and again, and by those false 
oaths of ours Lord Roderick Desmond was convicted and 
condemned to die. I accuse Gerald, Lord Clontarf, of 
double, treble perjury, and of being accessory to a most 
horrible murder.” 

He raised himself in his bed, his gaunt, skeleton arm 
uplifted, his eyeballs starting, his voice rising in a shrill, 
dreadful cry. 

The horrified rector recoiled, his hair bristling with 
terror and dismay. 

‘‘Good heavens above!” he gasped, “can this be true?” 

“True as the gospel you preach ; true, on the oath of a 
dying man ; and I hold you bound to proclaim it to the 
world, and punish the double-dyed traitor and perjurer 
as he deserves.” 


In tlie Tents of the Gypsies. 231 

“But his cousin — Lord Roderick — was not hanged. I 
have heard the story before !” cried the affrighted clergy- 
man. 

“No, he was not hanged. Whether he was murdered 
or not is an open question. He escaped from jail, but no 
one has ever heard of him or seen him alive since. My 
own impression is that he encountered Gerald Desmond, 
and that there was foul play. Would God he were alive! 
I would not have two murders on my soul in my dying 
hour.” 

His voice failed. He was sinking fast, but he had still 
strength left to sign the document. His breathing came 
slow and labored ; the death-rattle sounded already in his 
throat. 

“I see them every night,” he v/hispered, hoarsely — 
“Kathleen and Lord Rory! I saw him last night. He 
bent over me and spoke to me in the moonlight, and I 
know he is dead.” 

Colonel Drummond arose and camd and stood beside 
him. 

“Will you die any happier, William Morgan, to know 
Roderick Desmond is not dead,” he said, slowly. “Look 
up and see!” 

A piercing cry rang through the room ; the dying man 
sprang almost erect. 

“His voice!” he cried; “his face — changed, but his! 
Am I sane or mad ? Are you Lord Roderick Desmond ?” 

“Twenty years ago I was known by that name. You 
have done me deep and bitter wrong, William Morgan, 
but in this supreme hour may the great God forgive you 
as T do!” 

The light of a great joy flashed over the dying face. 
He tried to speak, but the awful death-rattle choked his 
words. With his glazing eyes fixed in the last ghastly 
stare on the pale features above him, Morgan, the. attor- 
ney — the murderer of Kathleen, fell back — dead ! 


232 


Mutual Confession. 


CHAPTER X. 

MUTUAIy CONI^^SSION. 

Lady Evelyn Desmond, entering the dining-room on the 
arm of Lord Clydesmore, found herself face to face with 
her lover. He sat beside his hostess, listening to her in- 
cessant prattle, with a look of stern pallor on his face very 
unusual there. 

“You here, Trevannance ?” Lord Clydesmore said. “I 
thought you had another engagement for this evening.^’ 

“None that I could not throw over, and Warbeck has 
charms no other house in the county possesses,” with a 
bow to his fair companion. 

“0h, certainly ! I am the attraction, beyond a doubt,” 
retorted her brilliant ladyship. “But how is it Orestes 
has left his Pylades, Damon his Pythias, David his Jona- 
than ? Where is the gallant colonel ?” 

“Am I my brother’s keeper ? He is pining for the 
sound of the war trumps once more ; he scents the battle 
afar off, and is away to the Western glades and green 
woods by the first steamer.” 

“And I, for one, am very sorry,” said Lady Clydesmore. 
“I shall never find a Chevalier Bayard, a herp without fear 
and without reproach, again. Peace to his memory. I 
hope he will be civil enough to come and say good-by.” 

And so the subject was dismissed. Trevannance looked 
across at Lady Evelyn, but her eyes were upon her plate, 
and her pale, still face told nothing; but over that of her 
father there flashed a look of unutterable relief. 

“What an inconceivable idiot I have been,” he thought, 
“to let that passing resemblance frighten me so horribly ! 
I am like a nervous child, terrified at an imaginary bogy. 
But, thank God ! the fellow’s going.” 

The ladies went back to the drawing-room. There were 
but three on this particular evening — the hostess, Miss 
Ethel Albemarle, and Lord Clontarf’s daughter. Miss Al- 
bemarle, a brilliant pianist, sat down to the open instru- 
ment; the viscountess took a new novel and cuddled her- 
self up cozily on a dormeuse; and Lady Evelyn, with a 


Mutual Confession. 233 

feeling- of oppression, as though there were not air enough 
to breathe in the long drawing-room, opened one of the 
French windows and stepped out upon the lawn. 

The gentlemen lingered long over their wine and wal- 
nuts. My lady was half asleep over her high-church 
novel ere they entered. The keen eyes of Trevannance 
missed his liege lady at the first glance ; at the second they 
caught sight of a slender, stately figure out there on the 
moonlit lawn. An instant later and he was by her side. 

She glanced up, not startled, not surprised ; she had ex- 
pected him : but the beautiful face in the starlight looked 
paler than he had ever seen it. 

'T am glad you have come,” she said, slowly. “I have 
much to say to you to-night.” 

He bowed, and offered her his arm without a word. In 
silence they walked down between the copper beeches, out 
of sight of the lamplit windows. 

‘T have a confession to make,” began Lady Evelyn Des- 
mond, and the tremor in her clear voice alone told how 
bitterly painful and humiliating that confession was to 
her proud heart, “a confession I owe to you as my 
plighted husband. When ! promised to try and love you, 

I honestly meant to keep my word ; I have kept it; I have 
tried, and — failed. When you asked me upon your re- 
turn — ah ! such a short time ago ! — if any one else had 
supplanted you, I scorned to answer so preposterous a 
question. My heart was as free as when you first asked . 
for it. ‘In my wicked pride I thought myself superior to 
such base weakness, and — I have been properly punished. 

I am the weakest and falsest of all women !” 

There was a pause. They had stopped in their walk, 
and she covered her face with both hands, with a pas- 
sionate sob. 

Never before had she seemed so near to him, so woman- 
ly, as in this hour of her confessed weakness. And yet — ■ 
was it a great throb of relief that set his heart plunging in 
a most unwonted way for that well-trained organ ? 

“I am to understand, then,” he said in his low, linger- 
ing accents, “that the heart Ladv Evelyn Desmond can 
not give to me, has been bestowed upon some more fortu- 
nate man ?” 

“Oh, forgive me ! forgive me ! I meant to do right ; I 


Mutual Confession. 


234 

tried so hard — Heaven knows 1 did ! I respected you, ad- 
mired you, esteemed you — ” 

‘‘Everything- but loved me ; and you demand your free- 
dom now ? W ell. Lady Evelyn, I force no woman to wed 
me; I set you free. Only I made the same mistake you 
did yourself. I fancied La Rose de Castile superior to 
mortal weakness — ‘a creature all too bright and good for 
human nature’s daily food’ — an angel, the hem of whose 
garment I was unworthy to touch ; and I find — will you 
pardon my rudeness in saying it ? — a finished and perfect 
coquette, who flings aside a lover or a faded bouquet, 
when they grow triste, with equal high-bred indifference. 
May I ask the name of my fortunate — successor ?” 

The most gentle of gentlemen, the most courteous of 
courtiers, can be mercilessly cruel when they choose. 
Trevannance would not have laid a rude finger on the 
coarsest hag that ever dishonored the name of woman, yet 
with his soft, slow words he could stab to the core the 
proud heart of the lady he professed to worship. 

She looked up, all her Castilian fi^ flashing in her great 
eyes, and growing red in her before pale cheeks. 

“You do well,” she said, laying her right hand on her 
throbbing breast, “to remind me how false, how misera- 
bly weak I have been. I deserve your reproaches; but 
you might have spared me that one taunt. I do not ask 
for freedom. I ask for nothing but — but .jour forgive- 
ness, if you are great enough to grant that. Evelyn Des- 
mond does not give her word one hour, and withdraw it 
the next. All I have promised I am ready to fulfill — to be 
your wife to-morrow, if you demand it. And the honor 
of the man I wed, whoever he be, will be dearer to me 
than my life. Not ior my own sake, but for yours, have 
I told you this. Do you think I do not feel the bitter 
degradation of such a confession as this? Do you think 
you can despise me half as deeply as I despise myself?” 

He listened to the impassioned words with a face of 
emotionless calm. 

“And the man who has supplanted me,” he said, his low 
tones a strange contrast to the suppressed passion of hers, 
“is the friend I trusted, the hero ‘without reproach,’ 
Colonel Drummond !” 

She turned from him and hid her face, a cry breal'ing 
from her lips — such a cry of sharp, cruel pain as he could 


■ Mutual Confession. 


235 

not have wrung from that haughty breast had he struck 
her down at his feet. He was at hers the instant after it 
was uttered. 

“Oh, forgive me !” he cried. “I am a wretch, a merci- 
less brute ! Evelyn, dearest, look up, speak to me, pardon 
me if you can !” 

She obeyed him, looking up, ashen white. 

“I deserve it,” she answered, huskily. “But spare him. 
I v/ill never look upon his face again. And the blame is 
all mine, not his.” 

“No man is to blame for loving you. Dear Lady Eve- 
lyn, forgive me. I knew all this before you told me, and 
— I think you ten times more of an angel than ever. He 
deserves to win what I could not keep. He is a better, 
a braver, a truer man than I. He has suffered greatly 
and endpred silently. He is worthy of you, and I — am 
not.” 

She dropped her hands and looked at him in white 
amaze. Was this Vivian Trevannance talking, or was she 
in a dream ? 

“Two hours ago. Lady Evelyn, I lay yonder under the 
drawing-room windows, and inadvertently played the 
eavesdropper. A confession quite as humiliating as your 
own, is it not? I heard Drummond’s first words to you, 
your reply, and I was chained to. the spot ; I could not stir. 
I heard all. I knew he had won the greatest prize man 
ever fought or died for — the heart of the purest and 
noblest, the most beautiful of women. And, Lady Eve- 
lyn, I free you from your promise. I honor you as I 
never honored any woman since my mother died, and 
Robert Drummond shall be the friend dearest to me while 
life lasts.” 

She still stood looking at him in that stupor of pale 
amaze. 

“Why did I not know you sooner?” she said, under her 
breath. 

He smiled. 

“We were not for each other. Dearest Lady Evelyn, 
you remember the gypsy Redempta’s words to me on the 
day we first met, and again, a few hours back, on the race- 
course ?” 

“Yes — no. I paid no heed. I have forgotten. She 
spoke of — ” 

“Some one, loved and left, over the sea. Lady Evelyn, 


From tlie Dead. 


236 

out yonder in America there is one, not one half *so beau- 
tiful, not one quarter so goc d or gentle or lovable as your- 
self, and yet — I love her. I loved her and I left her. She 
is beneath us in rank, perhaps, but as far above me in 
genius and virtue as yonder starlit sky. I left her, for 
you were to be my bride — you, the golden apple for whom 
half a hundred of the highest in the realm would have 
bartered their coronets. But now we are both free once 
more. I will return to my little Mignonette, and you — 
you will bless the life of a better man.” 

He took both her hands in his and looked down at her 
for an answering smile ; but the smile that flitted and 
faded over the beautiful face was very sad to see. 

“We have .parted,” she said, softly, “and forever. Do 
you think papa, with his pride, would ever listen to him? 
And if I be not his v/ife, I shall go to my grave what I 
am to-night. For you, I wish you joy with all my heart 
— you and your bride. Shall we return? I am cold.” 

She shivered slightly, but not with the cold. He held 
her still an instant more. 

“Then here we part,” he said ; “here we end what was 
to be, and go our different ways. Farewell, Lady Eve- 
lyn, and God bless you !” 

For the second time in his life, he stooped and touched 
the pearly brow with his lips. Never had he been so near 
loving her as now, when he gave her up. 

“Farewell !” she seemed to sign rather than say, as she 
glided from him like a spirit and flitted away to the house. 

And Vivian Trevannance, left alone in the moonlit ave- 
nue, lit his Manila — man’s best consoler — and leaned 
against a big tree, and smoked, and looked at the moon, 
and wondered why the deuce things were at such cross- 
purposes in this world, and whether it was sorrow or joy 
that most filled his inconstant heart at his freedom. 


CHAPTER XI. 

:^ROM the: dead. 

The amber haze of the June evening lay bright over the 
fair English landscape as Robert Drummond rode back to 
Royal Rest. 

Warbeck Hall lay on his way thither, and as he ap- 


From the Dead, 


237 

proached the lofty entrance gates he came face to face 
with Vivian Trevannance. 

“By Jove!” the younger man exclaimed, “here you are, 
after all. I give you my word I began to think you had 
gone oif to America without the ceremony of saying 
good-by. As for that other story, I knew it was too ab- 
surd to be true.” 

“What other story ?” 

“That you had met with an accident, and were killed or 
dying. . It takes considerable killing to make an end of 
the fire-eating leader of the ‘Devil’s Own.’ The servants 
in the house got hold of some garbled version from the 
village; and the worst of the matter is that — women be- 
lieve these stories so readily — I fear Lady Evelyn may 
have heard it.” 

Drurnmond looked in amaze at his friend. Vivian 
Trevannance stretched forth his hand, with a . smile. 

“I know all ; I give you joy. You have won a prize for 
which an emperor might lay down his crown and scepter.” 

“And you ?” 

“All is at an end between us — a dissolved engagement 
by mutual consent. She confesed all with a noble hero- 
ism rarely met with, and — of course she is free. I do not 
blame you in the least. Go in and win, and my blessing 
be upon your virtuous endeavors. For myself, I return 
to America. I find I have left my heart behind me there.” 
“With—” 

“Yes, with Mignonnette. I think the little one cares • 
for me, in spite of her scorn and defiance ; and I know how 
much I care for her. Perhaps you had best go in. Only 
from your own lips,” smiling, “will Lady Evelyn believe 
you are alive. Whom have we here? Ah ! the rector.” 

Mr. Hall came whirling up in his pony-chaise, with a 
pale and alarmed visage quite remarkable to see. He had 
come on a most unpleasant errand. The deposition of 
the dead vagrant was in his pocket, and to Lord Clontarf’s 
influence he owed his present highly eligible living. How 
was he to face his patron and accuse him of this array of 
horrible crimes? 

The three men entered together. The rector and Trev- 
annance went into the library. 

“You will find Lady Evelyn where I left her ten min- 
utes ago, in the picture-gallery. Go and tell her^you are 
not altogether killed.” 


From the Dead. 


238 

The colonel very readily obeyed; he sprang up the 
marble stair-way, passed along the second hall on his way 
to the picture-gallery ; but ere he reached it a near door 
opened, and Lady Evelyn herself stood before him, with 
a white, wild face. A second later and she had recoiled, 
with a low cry : 

‘‘They told me you were dead ! They told me — ” 

Her words died away ; the man she loved held her 
clasped in his strong arms. 

“My darling!” he said; “my darling! and you care for 
me like this ? Oh, my love, I have come back to 3^bu, not 
to say far .iwell, but to claim you as my own, to hold you 
here for evermore !” 

“You scoundrel! you audacious villain!” a harsh, stern 
voice broke in upon his impassioned words ; “release my 
daughter this instant !” 

The Earl of Clontarf stood before them, white to the 
lips with amaze and rage. 

It was on the threshold of her mother’s apartment Lady 
Evelyn had met him. , The earl chanced to be with his 
wife, on one of his rare, ceremonious visits, and in leav- 
ing had come upon this unexpected tableau. 

His daughter, deadly pale, strove to release herself, but 
the “audacious villain” held her fast. He stood, drawn 
up to his full, kingly height, those vivid violet eyes the 
peer had such horrible reason to dread flashing upon him 
their blue lightning. 

“Vv’e part not, sir,” the soldier said in a voice that rang; 
“not at the command of ten thousand fathers ! I love 
your daughter, and she loves me. Vivian Trevannance 
has resigned his claim ; her hand is free. Her heart is 
mine, and no power on earth shall sever us ! Not yours, 
Gerald Desmond !” 

Lady Evelyn looked at her lover, looked at her father, 
ashen pale. The former stood, “a king of noble Nature’s 
crowning,” grand, strong, flashing-ey^d, majestic; the lat- 
ter, ghastly white with an awful, unuttered dread, had 
staggered back, and stood blindly staring. 

That voice ! that face !. those words ! Was he going 
mad? 

“Who are you,” he cried, hoarsely, putting forth hi^ 
hand as though to hold him off, “that dares to speak to me 
thus ? Wb.o are you that speaks with the voice and looks 
at me with the face of the dead ?” 


239 


From tlie Dead. 

The reply on the lips of the man he addressed never was 
uttered ; for, in trailing white robes — white as a spirit her- 
self— Inez, Countess of Clontarf, stood upon the thresh- 
old. She had heard that voice — that voice silenced for 
twenty long years, and she had risen and come forth. 
Her great black eyes were fixed upon the face of her 
daughter’s lover, with a wild glare, for one awful mo- 
ment — only for a moment ; then, with a long, shrill cry of 
recognition, “Roderick! Roderick! Roderick!” she reeled 
and fell heavily at his feet. 

He caught her as she touched the ground. Her daugh- 
ter had echoed her cry, but Gerald Desmond stood rooted 
to the. spot. He knew all at last. It was no dream, no 
fancy, no chance resemblance, but his cousin, Roderick 
Desmond, who stood before him from the dead ! 


CHAPTER- XII. 

the: ve:nge:ancs oe' rode:rick de:smond. 

That wild scream had been heard. The moment after 
it was uttered, Trevannance Lord Clydesmore, and Mr. 
Hall were on the spot. 

“What the deuce has happened ?” demanded the master 
of the house. He might well stare. Colonel Drummond 
stood with the swooning form of Lady Clontarf in his 
arms, while my lord earl, leaning against the wall, was 
glaring before him like a galvanized corpse; and Lady 
Evelyn, pale as a spirit, looked from one face to the other 
— from father to lover — still “far wide.” 

The calm, clear voice of the American officer broke the 
silent spell. 

“Nothing very extraordinary, my lord. This lady, in 
attempting to quit her room, fainted. With your permis- 
sion, Lady Evelyn, I will place her upon the sofa yonder, 
and leave her in your charge.” 

He carried her gently in and laid her down. One fleet- 
ing second he paused, gazing at the white, rigid, death- 
like face of the woman who so nearly had been his wife, 
so sadly changed since those long-gone days ; then he had 
quitted the apartment, leaving Lady Evelyn with her 
mother, and closed the massive oaken door behind them. 

Her father stood as he had left him ; he had neither 


From the Dead. 


240 

moved nor spoken. Robert Drummond touched him 
lightly on the shoulder, as an officer of the law might in 
making an arrest. 

“A word with you, sir,” he said, authoritatively. go 
to the library ; precede me there. Mr. Hall, will you lead 
the way ?” 

Trevannance and Lord Clydesmore exchanged glances ; 
neither spoke; they were curiously watching the Irish 
peer. 

Mechanically, with that livid hue settled on his face, 
with that fixed, blind stare in his eyes, he obeyed the com- 
mand of the stranger ; he walked, without one word, after 
the rector. 

Colonel Drummond turned to his host. 

“You will pardon this seeming mystery, and later all 
shall be explained. I must have a word in private now 
with your friend.” 

Lord Clydesmore bowed rather haughtily, and Drum- 
mond passed on his way to the library. 

“Odd !” the viscount remarked to his friend when the 
trio had disappeared. 

“Very !” assented Mr. Trevannance. 

The rector entered the library after the others, the cold 
sweat of mortal apprehension in beads, on his brow. 
Drummond closed and locked the door and then walked 
forward to face his mortal foe. 

The library of Warbeck Hall was a vast apartment, 
where carved oak and green velvet curtains made perpet- 
ual gloom. A cluster of wax-lights blazed already over 
one of the writing-tables, though the summer sunset was 
still rosy in the sky without. 

In an arm-chair before this table Gerald Desmond sank 
down, and with his elbows upon it, his forehead bowed on 
his hands, sat waiting for his doom. For a great and ut- 
ter hopelessness had come upon him ; a dull despair filled 
him in which there was a strange mingling of relief. 

He had lost all for which he had risked so much, but he 
was no murderer- — at least, in deed. A murderer he 
might be, as surely as though the grave had closed over 
his victim ; but the dead face of Roderick Desmond could 
never haunt him, night-time and day-time, more and blast 
the happiness of his life. 

He was weak in body and crushed in mind just now, 


From the Dead. 241 

with his intense shock of amaze, while his great enemy 
reared above him, tall, strong, majestic in the very force of 
his wrongs. 

It was the cowed earl who first spoke, with a sullen 
glance at the rector, who, pallid and trembling, hovered 
aloof. 

‘"What does he do here?” he asked, doggedly. “Let 
him leave the room.” 

“No,” the other interposed; “he shall stay. He holds 
in his possession a document that will send you from this 
house to the town jail yonder a felon and an outcast ! He 
holds the death-bed confession of William Morgan !” 

The man who for so many years had been Lord of 
Clontarf caught his breath with a sort of gasp. All, then, 
was at an end ; his cousin’s triumph was complete. 

“Will you hand me that paper, Mr. Hall ?” the colonel 
said, with stern brevity. “Nay, sir, never hesitate. Who 
is there alive has a better right than I ? I will read it 
aloud for my lord earl.” 

The rector yielded up the paper; the flashing fire of 
those blue eyes terrified him into instant compliance. 

Roderick Desmond opened it and read it, in a slow, im- 
pressive voice, from beginning to end. With the last 
word dead silence fell. 

“You did wrong, sir,” Roderick said, “to fling aside 
your tool when you had used it. The man who perjured 
himself at your command was worth watching. But you 
thought me dead, and fancied yourself safe.” 

“I thought you dead,” Gerald Desmond muttered in a 
strange, thick voice, “with a bullet through your heart, 
and the waters of Wicklow Bay above you.” 

“That was your mistake. Your aim was hardly as ac- 
curate as usual that morning, my worthy kinsman. The 
bullet aimed with such good will for my heart missed 
that organ by an inch or two, and a friend was on hand 
to rescue me from the waters of Wicklow Bay. You for- 
got my faithful foster-brother, Mike Muldoon, in your 
haste, did you not? He rescued me; he took me to Aus- 
tralia; he saved me from the felon’s death, from the base 
assassination to which the man who had been to me as a 
brother consigned me.” 

Something like a groan escaped the livid lips of the 


From tlie Dead. 


242 

cowering man, and his eyes fell before the lightning 
glances of those fiery eyes. 

“Twenty years have passed. Yon have prospered ; the 
world has gone well with you ; wealth, rank, honor have 
been yours. I have been an alien and an outcast, a felon 
and a wanderer over the world, without faith in man or 
trust in woman. You took from me my honor — dearer to 
me than life — the woman I loved, the title I should have 
worn, my life itself, if you could. You know the old Ger- 
man proverb : ‘The mill of the gods grinds slowly, but it 
grinds exceedingly small.’ You have run the length of 
your tether ; it is my turn now.” 

His voice rang, his eyes flashed. The stricken wretch 
before him seemed to shrivel up in the scorching flame of 
that lightning glance. 

‘T hold in my hand the paper that will strip you of 
wealth and rank and honors, and all you hold dearest on 
earth. It is mine to drive you forth from this house, with 
the scorn and hatred of all therein. Your wife’s love you 
never had. No, Gerald Desmond, that triumph never was 
yours. On your bridal-day, with wide leagues of ocean 
between us, she loved me still. Your daughter’s heart is 
mine to-day — that proud and peerless daughter, who, 
when she learns the truth, will abhor the man she once 
called father.” 

A cry like the cry of a wounded animal broke from the 
man before him at this last bitter blow. 

“Oh, God !” he said ; “I deserve it ! but have mercy, 
Roderick Desmond !” 

“I left America,” Roderick Desmond went on, stern as 
Rhadamanthus, “to seek my vengeance on you — nay, not 
vengeance — justice. I left, determined to find William 
Morgan and wring the truth from his guilty heart. I 
came here; I met your daughter — the Inez ci’Alvarez of 
my youth again ; and froixi the first moment we met I 
loved her. That love made me blind and mad. She was 
bound to another ; she could be nothing to me ; yet for her 
sake I resolved to spare the wretch who was her father. I 
said: ‘Kathleen is in heaven; no vengeance will bring her 
to me now. For myself, I can die as I have lived, an hon- 
est man at least. I will leave this place ; I will leave him 
to God, and her to the mian she is to wed.’ And I would 
have kept my word ; I would have gone and left my ven- 


From the Dead. 


243 

g'eance behind ; but Providence had willed it otherwise. 
By merest accident I came upon Morgan, wounded, dying. 
All unknown, I sat in the room while he ‘made his dying 
declaration to this clergyman. When he ceased, I bent 
over him. Like you, like your wife, he knew me at once. 
His last word was my name. My revenge came to me 
when I was leaving it. What is there to hinder me 
wrecking it in full now? For all the deep and deadly 
wrongs you have done me — for honor lost, for Kathleen 
murdered, for my father’s heart broken, for my bride 
taken from me,^ for a life blasted and made desolate, for a 
name and memory tarnished with dark dishonor — this 
paper gives me full and complete atonement at last.” A 
dreadful groan burst from the breast of th^ tortured man ; 
on his face lay the leaden hue of death, and the muscles 
convulsively twitched. In that hour he sufifered as Rod- 
erick Desmond had never done in his life. 

He stood looking at his prostrate foe, while the evening 
shadows deepened about them, and the soft summer twi- 
light fell. 

A change came over the fixed, stern fire of his eyes — - 
the proud and splendid face of Evelyn floating before him, 
unutterably soft and tender with the love she had learned 
from him. 

“For your daughter’s sake I would have spared you 
once, Gerald Desmond ; for your daughter’s sake I take 
my vengeance now — thus !” 

He lifted the paper — the confession of William Morgan 
— and held it in the blaze of the chandelier. 

Gerald Desmond sprang to his feet, with a great cry, a 
cry echoed by the rector ; but both stood rooted to the 
ground, whilst, the paper shriveled and scorched to cin- 
ders. 

Roderick Desmond ground the charred fragments un- 
der his heel. 

“You, sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Hall, “who heard 
the dying man declare the murder for which he afterward 
swore my life away will do me justice before the world. I 
forgave William Morgan, in his dying hour : Kathleen’s 
murderer, surely, then, I can forego all personal revenge. 
Your crimes are known on earth to but us three. For 
your daughter’s sake, whose heart that knowledge would 
break, t!;c world shall never"" know. Mr. Hall, ;for his 


244 After Twenty Years. 

own sake, will be discreetly silent, and I — I leave you to a 
ven.2feance mightier than any on earth. My civil rights I 
shall claim and take from you, and your daughter shall be 
my wife, and Countess of Clontarf — ” 

He stopped abruptly. The man he addressed had 
slipped from his chair and fallen on the floor. 

The rector sprang forward and raised him up. The 
Omnipotent vengeance to which Roderick Desmond had 
left him had stricken him down almost with the words. 
For the second time he had fallen in a fit of paralysis — a 
dreadful sight ! 


CHAPTER XHL 

AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 

Lady Inez Desmond lay long in that deep, death-like 
swoon. The evening shadows fell thick about them ere 
the great dark eyes opened to light and life once more. 
Her daughter hung above her; the gentle, loving lips 
fondly kissed her own. With the first glance into that 
pale, young face, memory returned. Slowly and painLil- 
ly she struggled up and gazed around. 

“Where is he?” she asked. “Was it a dream, Evelyn? 
Has my reason left me, or did I really see Roderick Des- 
mond — dead and gone twenty long years?” 

“You saw Colonel Drummond,, sweetest mother,” her 
daughter said, caressingly. “You saw the strange like- 
ness — the startling likeness — he bears to the lost lover of 
your youth. I, too, was struck by it the first moment we 
met.” 

“No, no, no!” Lady Inez cried, “it is no mere resem- 
blance. If I saw a living man, I saw Roderick Desmond 
in the flesh. Do you think there could be another man 
alive to look at me with his eyes, speak to me with his 
voice! I tell you I saw Roderick Desmond — the dead 
alive ! Oh, my daughter, what if. after all those years 
that we have mourned for him as dead, he should still be 
alive? Tell me,” she wildly cried — “tell me, Evelyn, all 
you know of this man. Who is he?” 

Lady Evelyn, very pale, looked her mother straight in 
the eyes. 


After Twenty Years. 245 

“A man — whoever he may be — whose name I desire to 
bear to my dying day.” 

Lady Inez uttered a faint cry. 

“My daughter ! And Vivian Trevannance?” 

“All is at an end between Vivian Trevannance and me. 
If I do not marry Robert Drummond, I will go to my 
grave unwedded.” 

Her mother drew her closer to her and kissed the pale, 
cold face. 

“Tell me all about him, my darling — who brought him 
here — how long have you known him — all, all !” 

“That all is but little. Mr. Trevannance met him in 
America ; he saved his life there ; he brought him with 
him here when he returned. We met, and, mother mine, 
I think I loved him from that first meeting. I, too, saw 
the wonderful likeness to the picture you gave me, and I 
think — I believe — papa saw it, too, and for some reason 
feared and dreaded him. Of his previous history I know 
little or nothing. I do not ask to know. He is all that is 
noble and good, and I love him. I need no more.” 

“And he loves you ?” 

“With his whole brave heart !” 

The lovely face glowed as she made the answer. 

Just then came a soft tap at the panels of the door. 
Lady Evelyn crossed the room, pushed aside the curtain 
and opened the door, expecting to see Lady Clydesmore. 
But in the twilight her lover stood before her, paler than 
herself. 

“My dearest,” he said, drawing her to him, “an accident 
has happened. Do not be alarmed ; but your father is 
very ill. He has had a stroke of paralysis.” 

She grew so white that he thought she was going to 
faint. The large violet eyes fixed themselves with 
strange, startled intensity upon his face. 

“He has had a shock of some kind,” she said, breath- 
lessly. “Have you been the cause ?” 

“I have. Evelyn, my love, your father knows who I 
am — your mother knows it. My beloved, do you ?” 

“You are Roderick Desmond !” 

She said it with a sobbing cry. He drew her into his 
arms and held her there close — close to his beating heart. 

“I am Roderick Desmond, so long thought dead — alive 


246 After Twenty Years. 

to love you with stronger love than man ever felt for 
woman before.” 

She freed herself by an effort, and the deep solemn eyes 
shone on him in the dusk. 

"And my mother?” 

"Ah, your mother !” — his face darkened ever so little — 
"that was dust and ashes years ago. But you are now 
what your mother was twenty ye'ars back, and I think I 
loved you first for that. My dearest, I have a very long 
story to tell you of the bitter past — of the woman I loved 
and lost — of the woman who loved me and whom I wed- 
ded ; of a daughter, a stray waif, somewhere in America. 
But not now — you must go to your father.” 

"And you must go to my mother! Yes, Roderick, she 
desires to see you with a desire not to be denied. And she 
was not so false as you think. Let her plead her cause, 
and pardon her, for my sake !” 

He kissed the pleading lips. 

"For your sake, my darling, there is nothing on earth I 
would not do. Lead me to your mother — as well now as 
another time.” 

She drew him into the apartment. It was still light 
enough, even among the gathering shadows, for them to 
see each other’s colorless faces. Lady Inez reared herself 
upright where she lay, with one faint word on her lips : 

"Roderick !” 

"Inez !” 

He stood drawn up before her, tall, stern, grave as 
doom. Lady Evelyn gave him one pleading glance — a 
glance that said plainly as words, "Oh, be merciful !” and 
flitted like a shadow from their presence. But in that first 
instant of meeting with this new love strong and sweet in 
his heart to atone for the past,>hf was hard to forget all his 
cruel, bitter wrongs. Twenty years rolled away — he 
thought of the happy, true-hearted, gladsome boy who had 
loved the Spanish beauty with his whole soul, and of her 
base return. Within a few brief months of what she had 
thought the day of his death, she had given herself wholly 
to his would-be murderer. She had been false beyond the 
falsity of woman. 

His face set and hardened and grew rigid as iron as he 
thought all this. She saw that stern darkness and held 
up her clasped hands. 


After Twenty Years. 247 

'‘Oh, forgive me ! I was false and base ! You despise 
me, and I deserve it! I wedded him. No scorn you can 
feel for me can be half so bitter as that I feel for myself. 
And yet, if you knew all, you might try at least to for- 
give I” 

He smiled a little as he listened — a smile that had a 
world of bitterness in it. It was almost easier to forgive 
the kinsman who would have foully slain him than the 
woman he had loved and trusted. 

“There need be no talk of forgiveness between us. 
You lost me. Lady Inez, and you married another man — 
not at all an uncommon case. Pray, do not plead to me. 
I think I woula rather not hear it. You did as most 
women would have done. I have no right to complain — 
nothing to pardon. I am only sorry you did not marry a 
better man.” 

She covered her face with her hands, her tears falling 
like rain. 

“Cruel — cruel! But I deserve it all. And yet I, too, 
have suffered — oh, my God, so bitterly, so long! Rod- 
erick, by the memory of the past, be merciful — speak one 
kind word to me ! Listen whilst I tell you all !” 

She stretched out her hands to him in an agony of sup- 
plication. He bowed low before her, but he would not 
touch those extended hands. All that passionate pleading 
only seemed to harden his heart, only seemed to remind 
him that through her he had lost faith in man, trust in 
woman — that through her he had been an exile and an 
alien all those years. 

“I listen. Lady Inez,” he said, gravely ; “but once more 
I repeat, it is unnecessary. Let the dead past stay dead — 
the suffering and misery have gone by. If it gives you 
pain, I do not ask you to speak one word.” 

“It is your coldness, your sternness, your cruel indiffer- 
ence that gives me pain. Ah ! you are very unlike the 
Roderick Desmond of twenty years ago !” 

He smiled again. 

“Very unlike, my Lady Inez. You can hardly wonder 
at that/’ 

“No; your lot has been cruelly hard — ^your exile long 
and terrible. And I seemed so false, so base, so heart- 
less. And yet it was for love of you I wedded Gerald 
Desmond.” 


248 After Twenty Years. 

Rory Desmond’s blue eyes opened wide at this declara- 
tion. He almost laughed aloud. 

“Pardon me, Lady Inez, but really, that is hard to be- 
lieve. You marry my rival — the man I have every reason 
to hate — because you love me ! Sounds rather like a par- 
adox, does it not?” 

“Nevertheless, it is true. I can never tell you what I 
felt, what I suffered, in those first dreadful days when we 
all thought you murdered. I only wonder now I did not 
die or go mad. But I lived on, in a stupor of anguish, un- 
der the blow which killed your father. Ah ! he was hap- 
pier far than I. And on his death-bed he called me to his 
side and begged me to be Gerald Desmond’s wife.” 

“My father did this ?” 

“He did. Do not blame him now ; he did it for the best. 
Gerald Desmond did with him as he willed ; and I — oh, 
Rory ! could I refuse your father anything in that supreme 
hour? You were dead, I thought, and it mattered little 
what became of me. Besides, I hoped my life would be 
but for a few months at best ; I thought I coiild not live 
in such utter desolation as that. But, ah, how strong I 
was ! I lived on and on — 3 . living death — abhorring the 
man who was my husband — seeing my ffolly too late — 
ever, ever mourning for you. If you can not forgive me, 
try, at least, and think less hardly of me, now that my days 
are numbered, for the sake of my daughter, whom you 
love !” 

He listened in pale amaze. Then all else was lost in a 
great and deep compassion for this frail, pale creature, 
who in heart had been true, after all — whose sufferings 
had been so much greater than his own. 

“It is I who must ask forgiveness. Lady Inez,” he said 
in a tone infinitely gentle and sweet, “not you ; for I have 
greatly wronged and misjudged you all these years. If 
you think there is anything to pardon, then I pardon it 
freely, God knows ! I see it all now. You have been far 
more sinned against than sinning. Yes, Inez — my sister 
— I forgive all out of my inmost heart.” 

He kissed the pale, transparent hands reverently ; he 
looked with pitying tenderness into that pallid, wasted,’ 
worn face. Yes, her womanly martyrdom had been long 
and verv hard to bear. 


After Twenty Years. 249 

Her eyes shone through their tears, at peace now. 
They dwelt upon him with, an angelic look, full of an af- 
fection free from every tair^ of earthly passion — -the gaze 
of a mother upon a beloved and long-lost son. 

“And you will tell me all now — vour past!'' she said, 
softly. “And why it is we have met at last?" 

He seated himself beside her. Her face glimmered 
white as that of the spirit in the wan light as she lay back 
to listen. He told her all — his escape from prison by 
faithful Mike Muldoon ; that terrible struggle for life on 
the cliff with the man who was her husband ; of his second 
rescue from death by Mike ; of the cruel news of his fath- 
er’s. death and her marriage, which had reached him in 
]^ ffbourne, and which had made him a wanderer and an 
exile ever after. He told her of his marriage, of its tragic 
ending, of his daughter, of the meeting in St. Louis be- 
tween himself, Trevannance, Mignonnette, and poor, 
wounded Mike. 

He told her all — of his love for her daughter; his 
strange encounter with Morgan ; the death-bed confession, 
and that last interview in the library so awfully closed. 

She listened, deadly pale, breathlessly interested, but 
never interrupting until the story's end. Then she strove 
to rise. 

“I must go to my husband," she said. “If he is 
stricken by the hand of God, my place is by his side." 

She struggled to get up, but Roderick held her gently 
back. 

“Not yet, Inez. Evelyn is with him, and the orders of 
the medical man are that no one else save the nurse be ad- 
mitted. You are able to do nothing. He lies insensible 
to everything. You must wait until the morning." 

She looked at him wistfully as he arose to go. 

“Pardon me, Roderick, but how is it you could leave 
your daughter to struggle alone in those large, terrible 
cities, young and beautiful as she must be? It is not like 
you." 

“The fault was not mine. She had learned to hate me 
all her life, and was quite' unmanageable in her pride and 
independence. I can do nothing with her ; but I think I 
know some one who can," with a smile. 

“Ah I a lover?" 


250 Conquering the Conqueress. 

“Mr. Vivian Trevannance. He fell in love with her 
before I met him, and she with him, I rather fancy ; but 
again that indomitable pride of hers held them apart. 
Besides, he was then engaged to Lady Evelyn. But he 
will go to America and he will find her, and I shall wel- 
come my late rival as my son.” 

“How very strange it all is! And this brave, faithful 
friend — this heroic Mike Muldoon — what of him ?” 

His eyes glistened at the name of that true-hearted 
friend. 

“My brave Mike, who has loved me with a love surpass- 
ing that of a woman ! He and I shall never part more. 
He shall reign grand seigneur of Clontarf — the great am- 
bition of his life. It was agreed between us, when we 
parted, that he was to wait until I wrote to him or rejoined 
him in St. Louis ; and he will wait. I write to-night, and 
I mean to repair and rebuild Clontarf, and he shall be my 
bailifif there, and the happiest fellow in the three king- 
doms. Shall I ring for your maid, Inez, before I go?” 

She assented, and held out her hand. 

“Good-night, Lord Clontarf. Ah, thank Heaven I can 
call you by that name at last ! Go to Evelyn. Do not let 
her wear herself out. Send her to me when she can leave 
her father.” 

He lifted the wasted hand to his lips, passed from the 
boudoir, and was gone. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

CONQUERING THE CONQUERESS. 

''Lady Clydesmore to Madame la Comtesse d' Avignon, 
Paris. 

“Warbeck Hate, June 20, 18 — . 

“Dearest VEroniquE, — I promised, I think, -when you 
left London last April, to keep you posted of all that tran- 
spired here. That I have not written before is simply be- 
cause I had nothing to say. It is only in books that 
things keep happening continually, and diaries are inter- 
esting reading. In real life the old tread-mill goes round 
perpetually on — dressing, dining, dancing, flirting, marry- 


Conquering the Conqiieress. 251 

ing, and giving in marriage — all without a particle of ro- 
mance. But something has happened at last — a living 
romance under our very roof — the most astounding event 
of the age ! Town and country are ringing with it. It is 
the topic of the clubs, the sensation paragraph of the 
papers. I can scarcely realize it all yet. 

“Let me collect my wits and write coherently, if I can. 
You will have seen, my dear Veronique, in Galignani, no 
doubt, the marriage of Lady Evelyn Desmond to Roderick 
Vincent Desmond, tenth Earl of Clontarf. And in the 
next column you have seen among the deaths that of Ger- 
ald Desmond, at Warbeck Hall. You have seen this, 
and been properly astonished, I dare say, for you knew 
my Lady Evelyn and her late betrothed, handsome Vivian 
Trevannance. 

“Yes, you knew Vivian Trevannance. There was a 
time, even, Madame la Comtesse, when I thought you 
would have written your n^e ‘Mrs. Trevannance,’ and 
held it 'a prouder title than all earth had to bestow. Ah, 
w’cll, Monsieur la Comte has five-and-fifty years, but he 
makes you a much better husband than our favorite Viv- 
ian would ever be, dear friend. 

“ ‘It is better to be an old man’s darling,’ etc. You and 
he parted as he and many others parted before you, and 
I.ady Evelyn got him and kept him, as we all thought. 
But nothing is certain. She is off and away on her bridal 
tour, and he is free and fetterless once more, gone, no one 
knows whither. 

“You recollect the sensation the news of his engage- 
ment caused, and his flight to America immediately after? 
He returned from thence, some two months ago, bringing 
with him a friend — an American, he said — one Colonel 
Drummond. Lord and Lady Clontarf and their daugh- 
ter were with us at Warbeck Hall at the time, and the two 
gentlemen came by chance upon Evelyn and I the day of 
their arrival down on the shore. 

“I was struck from the very first by this Colonel Drum- 
mond. You and I have seen many handsome men in our 
day, Veronique, but I don’t think we either of us ever saw 
a man like Colonel Drummond. I do not mean his being 
exceptionally handsome, although he is — quite magnifi- 
cent, I assure you ; but I had heard such tales of his prow- 
ess, of his invincible courage and heroism, that I expected 


252 Conquering the Conqueress. 

a ferocious barbarian, I think, instead of what I saw. 
Vivian had described him as a cool, daring devil, ready to 
lead his men into the very jaws of death, with a cigar in 
his mouth, and, what is better, lead them out again tri- 
umphant. 

“I found the cool, daring devil the gentlest of gentle- 
men, with the bow of a court chamberlain, the lowest and 
softest of voices, the most courteous of manners, and a 
look of fathomless sadness in a pair of eyes deeply, dark- 
'ly, beautifully blue. Of course I became absorbed, inter- 
ested in him at once. It is rather pleasant to know that 
the cavalier who bends so devoutly over you has led men 
to the cannon’s mouth; that your partner in the waltz, 
who twirls you round so gently, has slain his thousands 
and tens of thousands, and is a hero. 

“You will not be surprised to hear this of me; but you 
will be astonished when I tell you the cold, the haughty, 
the heartless Lady Evelyn fell in love with him at first 
sight. I don’t pretend to understand it yet — it is alto- 
gether unlike her. 

“And to complicate matters still more, he fell in love 
with her also, and they had an understanding somehow ; 
and there was a scene, I dare say, and a tragic farewell 
spoken, and the handsome colonel rode away to return no 
more — as we thought. 

“But the next afternoon, to our surprise, he returned, 
and with him Mr. Hall, the rector. He went up to the 
picture-gallery to see Evelyn, leaving Mr. Hall and Trev- 
annance in the library. A few moments after we heard 
a piercing shriek that rings in my ears yet. We all 
rushed up — I kept out of sight, however — and there stood 
Colonel Drummond with' Lady Clontarf in his arms in a 
dead swoon, whilst the earl stood staring like a man in- 
sane. 

“The colonel broke up the tableau — he was master of 
the situation. He placed my lady on a sofa in her ante- 
room, left her in chafge of her daughter, ordered — abso- 
lutely ordered — the earl down to the library, Mr. Hall 
also, and followed them there without deigning the slight- 
est explanation to any one. 

“The interview was long, and ended tragically enough. 
Mr. Hall came rushing out crying for help, and when all 
flocked in they found the earl speechless and helpless, in 


Conquering tlie Conqueress. 253 

a second attack of paralysis. They bore him to his room, 
a physician came, and we were told that his earthly career 
was run. 

“He was able to speak a little and move his right hand 
and arm. He whispered one word, ‘Roderick,’ and 
Colonel Drummond came and^tood by him. He smiled a 
little and beckoned the rector. Mr. Hall bent over him. 

“ ‘Tell,’ he whispered, ‘tell all.’ 

“Lady Clontarf and her daughter came into the room ; 
he saw them, and motioned them forward. He still lay 
clasping in his own the hand of ,the CQlonel, and Lady 
Clontarf ’s great black eyes were fixed upon him (the 
colonel) with a look of such wild joy as I never saw be- 
fore in human face. We were all present — Clydesmore, 
Vivian Trevannance, and mySelf ; and Mr. Hall, in falter- 
ing, broken accents, told the story he had to tell. 

“Colonel Drummond was not Colonel Drummond at 
all, but Lord Roderick Desmond, and rightful Earl of 
Clontarf. Over twenty years before he had been taken 
and tried for the murder of an Irish peasant girl — Kath- 
leen O’Neal — and condemned to be hanged. 

“In some wonderful way he effected his escaped, and 
for twenty years he was a wanderer upon the earth, a 
branded felon, whilst his third cousin, Gerald, succeeded 
to his title and estates. Not only to his title and estates, 
but to the hand of his promised bride, Inez d’Alvarez. 

“You know, Veronique, how unhappily the. earl and 
countess always lived together. Now the secret is plain 
• — she loved always the lover she had lost ; she recognized 
him the first instant their eyes met. 

“It appears there had been in some way a conspiracy 
against this Lord Roderick. The girl O’Neal had a lover 
who was madly jealous of the young Irish lord, and it was 
he who had sworn him guilty. But in the strangest, most 
providential manner they had met, when Drummond, as he 
called himself, left Warbeck Hall. He found this man — - 
Morgan by name — wounded, dying, and in his dying hour 
he- made a confession to the rector. He had done the 
murder himself for which Lord Roderick had suffered. 
He made a full and clear deposition, and recognized in 
Drummond the man he had so deeply injured, ere he died. 

“And so we knew the secret at last, and the true Earl 
of Clontarf stood before us — he would have been the 


254 Conquering tlie Conqueress. 

plighted husband of the mother, and stood there the ac- 
cepted lover of the daughter. To see her he had come 
from America after all these years, and at first sight mu- 
tual love had been the result. My handsome colonel was 
a veritable hero of romance. 

“A wonderful story, you^say. I agree with you; and 
the most wonderful part, the conduct of Vivian Trevan- 
nance. He resigned ‘La Rose de Castile' without a 
struggle. Is it possible he never really cared for her? — 
that vanity, not love, made him seek her? Gerald Des- 
mond, from the moment he was struck down and knew 
himself dying, seemed *but to have two desires left — that 
this new-found cousin would forgive him for something, 
and that he would marry Evelyn before he died. He 
could not bear him out of sight; he would lie for hours, 
his cousin's hand clasped in his, his haggard eyes never 
leaving his face. By his death-bed his daughter was mar- 
ried — good heavens! What a dismal bridal! She was 
whiter than her robes and veil, but inexpressibly beauti- 
ful. And he — oh, Veronique, I sigh to think I shall never 
see anything like him again! Trevannance was grooms- 
iiian — I laugh when I think of it — very handsome, very 
elegant, eminently self-possessed, and with just the grav- 
ity becoming the occasion. It did not cost him one 
pang. I wonder if there be such a thing as a heart in 
man's anatomy. 

“Gerald Desmond died that night, his daughter's hus- 
band by his side, his last look on his face, his last word 
‘Forgive.' And he is buried, and his secret with him, 
and the new earl and countess, and Lady Inez — she won't 
be countess-dowager — have left for old Castile. It is the 
land of mother and daughter; both pine to behold it, and 
Lady Inez goes there to die. She seems strangely 
happy, and yet her days are numbered. A peace I never 
saw in her face before has come there since the hour she 
discovered this Lord Roderick lived. 

“Immediately after the strange, w^eird wedding Traven- 
nance disappeared. Whither he went to he declined to 
tell, only Evelyn whispered a word to me as she said fare- 
well, ‘He has gone back to America for a dark-eyed 
bride.' I don't know whether it is mere surmise or not; 
time will tell. 

“Dear! what a long letter, and what a budget of news! 


Conquering the Conqueress. 255 

Never complain of me again as a bad correspondent. I 
am drearily lonely since they all left. I wish you were 
here, Veronique. But that may not be, and so farewell! 
Best regards to Monsieur le Comte — a thousand kisses to 
you from thy Bejatriciv.’^ 

The amber glory of a sunny September afternoon filled 
the city, and Vivian Trevannance sat at an hotel window 
looking listlessly down on the tide of life ebbing and 
flowing along Notre Dame street, Montreal. The in- 
evitable cheroot was between his lips,, the old, languid 
grace was in his attitude, but his handsome, nonchalant 
face looked worn and pale and very grave. 

For his search after Mignonnette seemed a well-nigh 
hopeless thing. He had tried New York and Philadel- 
phia and Washington, and had failed. The stage had 
lost her. Since she disappeared so mysteriously the pre- 
vious spring, in St. Louis, none of her theatrical friends 
had heard of her. Advertisements, large rewards, de- 
tectives — all failed. La Reine Rouge had vanished. 

Trevannance gave up the chase in American cities and 
went to Canada. He visited Toronto, Ottawa, and finally 
Montreal. Still in vain; all the means used hitherto had 
failed as well here. Minnette, the actress, was not to be 
found. 

The very difficulty of the chase gave it added zest; the 
oftener he was disappointed the more determined he 
grew. He had never known how dear she was to him 
until the hope of finding her began to leave him. He 
grew haggard and pale, and a certain look of nervous 
anxiety and constant watchfulness grew habitual to his 
handsome face. 

Fie sat alone, this sunlit September afternoon, weary 
and half hopeless. What had become of her? Whither 
had she gone, poor little frail wanderer; adrift on life’s 
stormy sea? Ah, if he had but been true to his own 
heart, and made her his whilst he could ; taken her to his 
bosom and shielded her from shipwreck in the world! 

Crowds passed up and down; he only saw a black, 
moving stream. All at once, though, he started, took the 
cigar from his mouth, stared again, half in doubt, half in 
hope and delight. An instant later he had seized his hat 


256 Conquering tlie Conqueress. 

and was leaping down the stairs five at a time. Chance 
had done for him at last what labor and search so long 
had failed to do. 

An elderly French woman stood on the curbstone wait- 
ing for a chance to cross the street. With a dozen long 
strides he was beside her. 

“Madame Michaud!” 

The little old woman wheeled around and recognized 
her handsome accoster at once with sparkling eyes. 

''Mon Dieu! Monsieur Trevannance! Who would 
have thought to see you here?” 

“I have been searching for you — Mignonnette, these 
months. Is she here? — Is she well?” 

“Both, monsieur.” 

“And with you?” 

“Always with me, monsieur. Could the child live 
alone?” 

“Thank Heaven! Is she on the stage?” 

“No, monsieur. She has never been on the stage since 
that time.” 

“Thank Heaven again! What, then, does she do?” 

“Monsieur, I don’t know that I ought to tell you. 

. Mam’selle will not like it.” 

“Why not, pray — if it be honorable? Tell me, Madame 
Michaud.” 

“Well, then, she teaches singing and the piano. But it 
is hard work, monsieur, and poor pay. The other was 
so much easier, so much pleasanter. Still, she toils on 
and works for us both. Ah! it is a noble heart.” 

“Why did she leave the stage?” Trevannance asked, 
more moved than he cared to show. 

La Michaud glanced at him askance. She was old, 
but she had not forgotten her youth. She understood 
perfectly why, but she was by far too womanly to tell. 
She shrugged her shoulders and trotted on by his side. 

“Ah, why, indeed? Ask her that when you see her, 
monsieur; she never told me. Where are you going 
now?” 

“Home with you, madame,” Trevannance answered, 
with quiet resolution. “Don’t be inhospitable; I insist 
upon it. Is Mignonnette there?” 

“Mignonnette is out — at her lessons. She will be very 
angry when she returns and finds you. We don’t receive 


Conquering tlie Conqueress. 257 

gentlemen in our chateau, Monsieur Trevannance,” 
chirped madame. 

“But such an old friend as I am, and after coming all 
the way from England, too. Your rule is excellent — I 
rejoice you don’t receive gentlemen — but I am ” 

“No gentleman, monsieur means to say?” 

“An exception, I mean to say, madame. Is this the 
place?” 

This was the place — up two pairs of stairs — three little 
attic chambers — spotlessly clean kitchen, sleeping room, 
parlor. Into the latter madame ushered her guest, 
apologizing for its lack of luxury. 

“We are poor, monsieur. The Mignonnette never 
could keep her money; it flowed from her like water to 
all who needed it. And then, traveling from place to 
place melts it away. Sit here by the window, monsieur 
— ^the view is pleasant. And tell me, did you really 
come all the way from England to find — us?” 

“For no other purpose, madame. And I never mean 
to part from — you again.” 

Madame laughed cheerily. At the same instant, a step 
came slowly and wearily up the long stair. 

''Mon Dieu!” madame cried in evident alarm, “here 
she is. Oh, monsieur, she will be angry.” 

“Then I will bear the blame. Open the door.” 

The door opened of itself, and Minnette stood on the 
threshold. Yes, Minnette, but with all the old, defiant 
brightness, the old dash and sparkle and bloom gone. 
She looked pale and thin, very tired and sad. 

Her glance fell upon the visitor the first instant. She 
uttered no exclamation, no word. She stood rooted to 
the spot with amaze, and something else that left her 
pallid as ashes. 

Trevannance rose, very pale himself, and came hastily 
forward. 

“•Mignonnette, at last! Thank Heaven I have found 
you once more!” 

The sound of his voice broke the spell. She came in 
and closed the door, but the hand he extended was en- 
tirely overlooked. 

“This is a very unexpected honor, Mr. Trevannance,” 
she said, slowly and frigidly. “You will pardon me if I 


2^ ^ Conquering the Conqueress. 

say as unwelcome as unexpected. To what do we owe 
it?” 

She stood looking at him, the, old flashing light in the 
black eyes, the old defiant ring in the rich voice, 

Madame saw the coming storm, and fled before it. 
She retreated to the kitchen. She could hear just as well 
there, and awaited the battle with her eye to the keyhole. 

Trevannance spoke — a very torrent of eloquence it 
seemed to little madame. She could understand Eng- 
lish, and speak it, too, but not when it flowed in a deluge 
like this. 

The gentleman pleaded his cause eloquently and long, 
looking irresistibly handsome all the while. The lady 
paced the little room, very angry, very haughty, very 
majestic at first, but melting gradually, 

Madame knew how it would end — oh, yes! — and 
chuckled inwardly at this fencing with the buttons on. 
And when presently monsieur, after an impassioned 
harangue, clasped mademoiselle in his arms and held her 
there, and mademoiselle, after one or two fruitless efforts 
to escape, submitted to be held captive, why, then, 
madame laughed outright, applauded softly with two 
brc wn hands, and trotted away from the key-hole. 

“Dieu niercir said madame; “it’s all over! And now 
I’ll go and get supper.” 

Trevannance had conquered. The little black curly 
head nestled contentedly against his breast at last. 

“You always loved me, Mignonnette. Come, now, be 
honest and own it.” 

“I always hated you! I do so still — so impudent, so 
co?Tceited. Will you let me go, sir? Madame will come 
in and catch you ki — Stop, I tell you! There! sit 
down, for pity’s sake, and behave like a rational being!” 

“But I’m not a rational being, and never mean to be 
again! I’m quite delirious with happiness!” 

Mr. Trevannance took the seat, however, very coolly 
for so vehement a declaration. 

“And now I’ni going to ask you questions, and you 
arc to answer them,” said mademoiselle, with the air of a 
counsel for the prosecution to a witness on the other side. 
“In the first place, why have you come here?” 

“A very absurd question, fo begin with. To find you, 
as I have told you ten times in as many minutes.” 


i^y the Grave of Kathleen. 259 

“Why did you not get married to Lady Evelyn when 
you went home?” 

“Because Lady Evelyn fell in love with another man, 
and I was in love with you. She told me her story, and 
I told her mine, and we shook hands and parted. I had 
the pleasure of being at her wedding the week I left.” 

“Her wedding! She is really married, then?” 

“Really married. And you have the handsomest step- 
mother in Europe!” 

“Step-mother?” 

“Yes, Mignonnette. She is your father’s wife.” 

“Colonel Drummond?” 

“Not at all. The Earl of Clontarf, my Lady Minnette! 
Come, sit do^Yn here, and I’ll tell you all about it.” 

She let him draw her down beside him, and listened to 
the story of all that had transpired. 

“She has been told of you; she loves you already; they 
both know wdiy I have come here. And when they re- 
turn to England next spring, they will find Mr. and Mrs. 
Vivian Trevannance waiting there to welcome them.” 

And then — but, . really, my reader, you can’t be in- 
dulged in this way— they sat in delicious silence, whilst 
the September moon sailed up, and they w^ere very, very, 
very happy; and little Madame Michaud came in, after 
ever so long, and told them supper was ready, and got 
hysterical in the telling, and cried and laughed and kissed 
her darling, and, after her, embraced Mr. Trevannance 
It was quite a scene! 


CHAPTER XV. 

BY THE GRAVE OE KATHLEEN. 

*'Lady Clydesmore to Madame la Comtesse d' Avignon, 
Paris. 

London, April 3, 18 — 

“My Dearest VeroniquE, — Again I write you, after a 
long, long interval — again in the very midst of the rush 
and bustle of the London season. And once more I am 
magnanimous enough to write, not of my ‘noble self,’ 
but of those in whom you tell me you are so deeply in- 


26o By the Grave of Kathleen. 

terested — the heroes and heroines of my late romance- 
like letter. 

‘’Well, then, dear, they are here in London. We are 
all cards in the same pack, as some clever person ob- 
serves, and are sure to come together again in the uni- 
versal shuffle. The Earl and Countess of Clontarf have 
taken a house in Park Lane, and Mr. and Mrs. Vivian 
Trevannance are stopping with them until the end of the 
season. Then the latter go to Royal Rest, and Lord and 
Lady Clontarf to a magnificent estate in Plampshire, 
which he has recently purchased. , 

‘The Lady Inez is dead. They have left her in her 
own fair Castile. Her end was all happiness — all peace. 
Lady Clontarf is in deepest mourning, of course, and 
does not appear in society at all. She is more beautiful 
than ever, and in hfer eyes there shines a glow of infinite 
joy that I can never describe. She and her husband — my 
late magnificent colonel — ^exist, I believe, only in the 
light of each other’s presence. Such post-nuptial bliss 
as theirs is wonderfully rare in this age, when Sir Cres- 
well Creswell is kept so breathlessly busy in the D. C. 

“Ah, well! I laugh because I laugh at most things; 
but this old-fashioned wedded devotion is very touching 
and beautiful, too. They go to Ireland very soon. Clon- 
tarf — which m.y lady has never seen' — is being fitted up 
for their reception." 

“And now — for I know you are dying to hear of your 
old flirtee, my Veronique — of Vivian Trevannance. and 
his bride. Ma chere, the little one is — the fashion. You 
know the m.eaning of that magic word. The men abso^ 
lutely rave of her, and pronounce her more beautiful 
even than La Rose de Castile ; a wild absurdity, of course. 
She is not nearly so beautiful, but she is better than 
beautiful — she is bewitching! She fascinates us all with 
her sparkling piquancy, her joyous insouciance. She is 
entirely different from anything I ever met, and yet, with 
a perfect manner that would serve a court. 

“She was presented at the last Drawing-Room by the 
Marchioness of Marabout — Vivian’s cousin — and royalty 
itself deigned to ask some questions concerning her. She 
is the belle, decidedly, of the season. 

“What is she like? who is she? 3^ou impatiently cry. 
My dear, she is an orphan; she was Mademoiselle Min- 


26 i 


By the Grave of Kathleen. 

nette Chateauney, portionless, but of one of the best fami- 
lies out there. That is all we know of her, and no one 
asks more of the lady fastidious Trevannance has made 
his queen consort. What is she like? 

‘‘She is petite, brunette, vivacious, full of sparkle and 
repartee; her keen little Canadian tongue has a double 
edge, and her long almond eyes flash black fire. She 
deigns to flirt a little — poetical justice for Vivian Trevan- 
nance — but he looks calmly on with eyes of lazy adoration 
good to see. In their way, I dare say they are quite as 
fond of one another as the Earl and Countess; but they 
are so different there is no comparing them. 

“And now, dear, adieu. Come to England this sum- 
mer — come to Warbeck Hall, and see for yourself the 
Corydon and Phyllis of Royal Rest. Best love and 
countless kisses from thy devoted Bejatrice;.” 

Sunset; a sky of gold and rubies; a sea sown with 
stars. The western windows of hoary Clontarf Castle 
had turned to sheets of beaten gold; its tall turrets glit- 
tered in the red lances of the sunset. Very peaceful 
lay the fishing village under the beetling rocks; very 
peaceful looked the humble church in the distance, its 
tall cross — that “sign of hope to man” — ablaze in the 
last light of the May day. 

The lady and gentleman who came up the rocky path 
from the seashore took their way slowly in this .direction. 
She leaned upon his arm, a woman in her first youth, 
beautiful as some dream of heaven, with the radiance of 
a great and perfect bliss forever in her face. A pure and 
noble soul shone out of starry violet eyes ; she looked and 
moved 

“A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair.” 

And he upon whose arm she hung looked a fit protector 
for her fair loveliness — a man for women to honor, to 
adore. The handsome face was very grave, very thought- 
ful, a little sad as he gazed around on the familiar land- 
scape unseen for one-and-twenty years. 

He pointed them out to her as they went along; but 
as they drew near the church silence fell. He opened 


262 


By the Grave of Kathleen. 

the little wicket gate and led the way round to the church- 
yard, where the ‘hude forefathers of the hamlet slept.” 

Tall grass waved and wild flowers bloomed; a few 
stones marked the resting-places — wooden boards others. 
Over all the May sunset rained down its impalpable gold. 

He led the way along the beaten path to a sunny cor- 
ner, where a tall sycamore cast its waving shadow over 
a grave. A white marble cross stood at its head, a 
wreath of immortelles surrounding one name — one — only 
one — “Kathleen.” 

And Lady Evelyn sank down on her knees with a sob 
on the yielding turf and kissed the humble name pas- 
sionately. 

“Oh, what have I done,” she said, “that such bliss 
should be mine, while she, who loved you so dearly, who 
died for you, lies here?” 

He uncovered his head before that lowly grave with as 
deep a reverence as he had ever done in the stately cathe- 
drals of old Spain, as he thought of that fair young life 
lost for love of him. 

“Kathleen is in heaven,” he said, “and her memory will 
be ever green in our hearts. Oh, my darling, my youth 
com.es back as I stand here and look at her name! What 
am I that I should have won such a heart as yours?” 

The sunset faded while those wedded lovers lingered 
there. Then, as he drew her gently away, the happy 
tears still wet on her eyelashes, she saw casting one last, 
lingering look back, the long evening shadows deepening 
over the quiet sleepers, and the last rays of the sunset 
yet bright on the grave of Kathleen. 


THi; END. 



Suffering more or less after eating a 
meal, I consulted a doctor, and he told 
me 1 ate too much veal and pork. 
Once at a banquet I noticed a certain 
doctor taking a tablet, and was told it 
was a Ripans Tabule, so I started to 
use them, and now I find that I can 
eat anything without fear. 1 am glad 
to recommend Ripans Tabules at all 
times. 

WANTED;— A case of bad health that R'I’P*A*N*8 will not benefit Send five 
cents to Kipaiis Chemical Co., No. 10 Spruce Street, New York, for 10 samples and 
1,000 testimonials. R‘I-P-A N’S, 10 for 5 cents, or 12 packets for 48 cents, may be 
bad of all druggists who are willing to sell a standard medicine at a moderate profit. 
They banish pain and prolong life. One gives relief. Note the word R*I'P*A N‘B 
<Ma the packet Accept no substitute 




A weiHpesscd Faee 

Perhaps you like that yellow moustache, but we are 
sure your friends do nou. 

Perhaps you think your gray whiskers don’t tell how 
old you are, but they do. 

Perhaps you have never noticed how a beautiful 
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It isn’t a brown or black today, and then some mis- 
erable color tomorrow. When dyed once it is dyed to 
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f think every man I see uses Ri‘P*A’N*S. 

Mr. Barry, our manager, takes one after every meal 
and so does his father and sister. The old gentleman 
has rheumatism if he don’t take R'I'P‘A‘N S. They use 
twelve a day in that house. 

About half the people I know carry one of those 5-cent 
cartons all the time in their vest pockets. 

I was in the Bowery Savings Bank to draw some 
money, and while I was waiting in the line a clerk came 
up to the paying teller and said: "‘Give me a Ripans!” 
The teller took a carton out of his pocket and handed 
it to the clerk, who took out one of the Tabules and 
handed the carton back. Then I watched him and saw 
him go to the water cooler and swallow the Tabule with 
some water; I saw him tip his head back. 

It’s just wonderful how everybody takes them. 


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THE NOVELS OF 

Mrs* ^kK* 
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BOUND IN ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED 
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List Of the Volumes Now Ready 

Af TEN CENTS IN THE EAGLE LIBRARY : 


Dora Tenny 

A Little Southern Beauty 
Rosamond 

The Senator’s Favorite 
A Crushed Lily 


Little Coquette Bonnie 
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Sweet Violet 
Lillian, My Lillian 


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Yes^ indeed 1 and they are per» 
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WANTED:— A case of hoU beidtb that, B'l’P'A’N’S will not benefit Send! five 
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of all druggists who are willing to sell a standard medicine at a. moderate profit. 
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Mrs. Mary J. Holmes 

is a writer familiar to all English- 
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her very best works in the Arrow 
Library at lo cents each (the right 
price) as follows: — 


No. 53. Tempest and Sunshine 
No. 56. Lena Rivers 
No. 57 . English Orphans 
No. 60. Homestead on the Hillside 
No. 79 - Meadowbrook 


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':6fi6rl6TlO'i€f}S^l&i&&'iQl€fl'Q'l€flQ 


The fascinating novels written by 



are among the leading attractions 
of Street & Smith’s celjbrated and 
popular EAGLE LIBRART, 
The following is a complete list 
of this favorite author’s works now 
published at TEN CENTS by 
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authorized publishers of her latest 
works, and the only house issuing 
her complete list of novels. 


LIST OF TITLES 


Audrey^s Recompense .... 


99 . 

Edfie^s Legacy 

44 

44 

12. 

Faithful Shirley 

44 

44 

in. 

Graeia's Mistake 

44 

44 

122. 

Max 

44 

44 

133. 

Queea Bess 

44 

44 

1. 

Ruby^«i Reward 

44 

** 

2. 

That Dowdy 


** 

44. 

Thrice Wedded 

44 

44 

55. 

Tina 

44 

** 

77. 

Two Keys 

44 

44 

7. 

Virgie^s Inheritance 

4i 

** 

88 

Witch Haeel 

44 

44 

66 


.lOc. 
.lOc. 
.JOc. 
.lOc. 
• JOc. 
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JOc. 
JOc. 
JOc. 
JOc. 
JOc. 
JOc. 
JOc. 


STREET & SMITH, Pubiisliers, New York ^ 

ct 6 ™ 





Gcoffry’s Victory .... 

Rose Series, No. I 

Queen Bess 

“ “ No. 4 


Mrs. Sheldon’s Works | 
in Cloth at 35 Cents I 

A 

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¥ 
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a 

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I 


Brownie’s Triumph. 

. Princess Series, No. 5, 25c. 

His Heart’s Queen . 

$* 

** 4» “ 

Lost, a Pearle 

€€ 

“ 7, “ 

Mona 

€i 

“ 10, “ 

Stella Rosevelt . . . 


“ 2, “ 

Wedded by Fate . . . 

€$ 

<« j <« 

Wild Oats 


“ 8, “ 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York 


G7 






IN HIS STEPS: 

WHAT WOULD JESUS DO? 


BY 

Rev. 

Chas.M. 

Sheldon 


Ul^lJOTOTUtr 

trrrtru0untr 


jarrOTTOU 

“^UOTUOT 


Get our complete 
and accurate 
edition No. 1 
Alliance Library. 

« 

FOR SALE 
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DEALERS 
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Street & Smith 

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238 WILLIAM ST. 
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‘■This book has met with 
the most phenomenal 
sale of any work produced 
in the English language 
in many years. Millions 
have read the work. It has 
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ing. Everybody should 
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49 


BERTHA M. aAY 

This world-famotis wfite/s stories have been 
read by millions* No estimate is possible of the 
enormous quantity of her works that have been 
sold in various editions* Her vivid pictures of life, 
especially Engflish life among the upper classes, 
have seldom been equalled and never excelled* 
Those who have read some of her works ( and 
what novel reader has not? ) will possibly find in 
this list of copyrights in the Eagle Library, some- 
thing that they have not yet had. The works 
of Bertha M. Clay which are published in the 
Eagle Library can be found in no other publish- 
er's list, as Street & Smith control all rights* 


61 * 

68 * 

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6 > 

6 > 

6 >. 

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6 > 

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List of Copyrigfhted 
Stories by Bertha 
M. Clay, to be had 
only in Street & 
Smith’s Eagle 
Library. 


TEN 

CENTS 

EACH 


48. Another Man’s Wife 
84. Between Two Hearts 
1 1 . The Gipsy’s Daughter 
21. A Heart’s Idol 
79. Marjorie Deane 
42. Another Woman’s Husband 
4. For a Woman’s Honor 
59. Gladys Greye 
70. In Love’s Crucible 
95. ’Twixt Love and Hate 
102 Fair but Faithless 
109. A Heart’s Bitterness 
119. An Ideal Love 
14. Violet Lisle 
130. A Bitter Bondage 


For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail, postpaid, on 
receipt of price, by 


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49 STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York 68* 



@ _ ® 


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$i George Ratbborne’$ 
Popiilar Romances ^ 


To be found only in Street & Smith’s Eagle 
Library. 

Every novel reader is familiar with the bril- 
liant and fascinating work of this favorite writer 
— the author of that great work, “Dr. Jack.” 

Mr. Rathborne writes exclusively for Street 
& Smith under a contract involving the pay- 
ment to him of many thousands of dollars per 
annum. The following list contains all the 
old favorite books from his pen, as well as his 
latest works* 

ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE 

Baron Sam Eagle No. 30, loc. 

Captain Tom 

Colonel by Brevet, The 

Dr. Jack 

Dr. Jack’s Wife 

Fair Maid of Fez, The 

Fair Revolutionist, A 

Girl from Hong Kong, The 

Goddess of Africa, A 

Great Mogul, The 

Major Matterson of Kentucky 

Miss Caprice 

Miss Pauline of New York 

Monsieur Bob 

Mrs. Bob 

Nabob of Singapore, The 

Son of Mars, A 

Spider’s Web, The 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent by mail, 
postpaid on receipt of price, by 


< ( 

ii 

26, 

ii 

n 

ii 

47 , 

ii 

ii 

a 

15, 

ii 

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18, 

ii 

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80, 

a 

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115, 

a 

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126, 

ii 

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loi, 

ii 

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35, 

ii 

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58. 

ii 

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28, 

ii 

ii 

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23, 

a 


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40, 


i i 

ii 

33, 

ii 

i ( 

i i 

38, 

ii 

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108, 

ii 



71, 

a 


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STREET & SMITH, Publishers, New York 


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MRS. GBORGin SHRLDON 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

ST. GBORGn RATHBORNJB 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

ADEBAIDB STIRLING 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

JUBIA EDWARDS 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

A. D. HAEE 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

BURT E. STANDISH 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

NICHOEAS CARTER 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 

BARCLA V NOR TH 

Writes exclusively for Street & Smith 


The above are only a few of the writers 
whose productions are Street & Smith’s ex- 
clusively. We are also publishing the latest 
and best copyright work of noted English 
novelists, such as 

Florence Warden 

Efde Adelaide Rowlands 

Gertrude Warden 

Mrs. Emily Eovett Cameron 

and others 

We are giving oar patrons the best to be had— don* t 
you think so? G 12 



The most famous works of 

Marie Corelli 

are to be had in Street & Smithes Arrow 
Library at Ten Cents each* The 
list is as follows: 


No. 18. A Romance of Two Worlds, 

markable books ever written. It advances the most 
startling 1 heoi ies regarding’ the spirit world which some 
suppose surr' unds us. Whether the work is purely an 
effort of imagination on the part of the writer, or that 
she really believes in it, the work is certainly a wonoer- 
ful production, which sh-'uld. under any circumstances, 
be read by all who give thought to what might exist in 
the worlds around us. 


No. 26 . Ardath. Vol. I 
No. 27, 




In this work we have the 

Vol. II. Romance of Two Worlds'*' 
more fully considered, 
and woven into a most unique and beautiful love story, 
the main characters being a mortal man and a spirit 
maiden. Those who have never read this work have a 
r re treat in store for them, but to fully understand it, 
“A Romance of Two Worlds ” should first be read. 

No VpndPttfl powerful story of an Italian 

INU. JO. VCHUCUd.. Vendetta, rivaling Dumas’ 

“ Monte Christo ” in strength of plot and depth of inter- 
est. This story has been dramatized under the title of 
“Fabio Romani.” 

No. 4r. Wormwood, in this story the terrible effects 

of that deadly drug, absinthe, 
are portraved in the most graphic manner. A book of 
absorbing interest. 

Nft ThelmJl ^ very powerful love story, the 

1>U. O J. 1 UCmid. gcenes of which are laid in Norway 
and Eng’land. An Englishman woos and wins a Norwe- 
gian princess, and transplants his wild Northern Rose to 
English soil. This work shows that Miss Corelli is at 
home in all the realms of the novelist. 


STREET & SMITH, Publishers 

238 Wilfiam St., New York 


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Fatal Wooing, A. By Laura Jean Libby 138 Eagle 

Fedora. By Victorien Sardou 36 Eagle 

Fighting Against Millions. By Nicholas Carter 11 Magnet 

Fighting Against Odds. By Douglas Wells 16 Columbia 

Fighting Squadron, The. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S, N. 2 Columbia 

File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 26 Magnet 

Firm of Girdlestone, The. By A. Conan Doyle 69 Arrow 

First Violin, The. By Jessie Fothergill 100 Arrow 

For a Woman’s Honor. By Bertha M. Clay 4 Eagle 

For Fair Virginia. By Russ Whytal 90 Eagle 

For Spanish Gold. By Douglas Wells 9 Columbia 

Found on the Beach. By Nicholas Carter 65 Magnet 

Frivolus Cupid. By Anthony Hope 64 Arrow 

From Lake to Wilderness. By William Murray Graydon..22 Medal 
From Tent to White House. (Boyhood and Life of Pres- 
ident McKinley.) By Edward S. Ellis 11 Medal 

O 

Gamblers’ Syndicate, The. By Nicholas Carter 18 Magnet 

Garden Court Mystery, The. By Burford Delannoy 112 Magnet 

Gauntlet of Fire, A. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S N..19 Columbia 

Gay Dashleigh’s Academy Days. By Arthur Sewall 38 Medal 

General U. S. Grant, The Life of. By W. H. Van Orden.lO Historical 
General W. T. Sherman, The Life of. By W. H. Van 

Orden 11 Historical 

Gentleman from Gascony, A. By Bicknell Dudley 89 Eagle 

Germinie Lacerteux. By E. & J. de Goncourt 4 Arrow 

Gideon Drexel’s Millions. By Nicholas Carter 99 Magnet 

Girl from Hong Kong. The. By the author of Dr. Jack 126 Eagle 

Gismonda. By Victorien Sardou 6'7 Eagle 

Gladys Greye. By Bertha M. Clay 59 Eagle 

Goddess of- Africa, A. By the author of Dr. Jack 101 Eagle 

Golden Eagle, The. By Sylvanus Cobb. Jr 19 Columbia 

Grazia’s Mistake. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 122 Eagle 

Great Enigma, The. By Nicholas Carter 2 Magnet 

Great Hesper, The. By Prank Barret 31 Arrow 

Great Mogul, The. By the author of Dr. Jack 35 Eagle 

Great Money Order Swindle, The. By Nicholas Carter... 91 Magnet 

Great Travers Case, The. By Dr. Mark Merrick 48 Magnet 

Gypsy’s Daughter, The. By Bertha M. Clay 11 Eagle 

M 

Half a Truth. By a popular author 114 Eagle 

Han of Iceland. By Victor Hugo 19 Arrow 

Hardy Norseman, A. By Edna Lyall 66 Arrow 

4 



Harrison Keith, Detective, The Adventures of. By 

Nicholas Carter 93 Magnet 

Hawaxi. By A. D. Piail 4 tiiscuncal 

Heart of ’Virginia, Ihe. By J. Perkins Tracy 37 Eagle 

Heart's Bitterness, A, By Bertha M. Clay...-. Iu9 Eagle 

Heart’s Idol, A. By Bertha M. Clay 21 Eagle 

Hector Servadac. By Jules Verne 39 Arrow 

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards 3 Eagle 

Her Heart’s Desire. By Charles Garvice 41 Eagle 

Her Ransom. Ly Charles Garvice 50 Eagle 

Her Rescue from the Turks. By the author of Dr. Jack... 142 Eagle 

Hero of the Brigade, The. By Douglas Wells 14 Columbia 

His Fatal Vow. By Leon De Tinseau 23 Arrow 

His Great Revenge, Vol. I. By Fortune Du Boisgobey. .54 Magnet 
His Great Revenge, Vol. II. By Fortune Du Boisgobey. .55 Magnet 

His Perfect Trust. By a popular author 69 Eagle 

Holding the Fort. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N...— 11 Columbia 
Homestead on the Hillside, The. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes.. 60 Arrow 

Honorable Mrs. Vereker, The. By The Duchess 62 Arrow 

House of the Wolf, The. By Stanley J. Weyman 10 Arrow 

House of Seven Gables, The. By Nathaniel Hawthorne. .54 Arrow 

Humanity. By Sutton Vane 92 Eagle 

Hunchback of Notre Dame, The. By Victor Hugo 90 Arrow 

I 

Ideal Love, An. By Bertha M. Clay 119 Eagle 

In All Shades. By Grant Allen 22 Arrow 

In Barracks and Wigwam. By Wm. Murray Graydon 36 Medal 

Inez. By Augusta J. Evans 82 Arrow 

Ingomar. By Nathan D. Urner 25 Arrow 

In His Steps: What Would Jesus Do. By Rev. Chas. M. 

Sheldon 1 Alliance 

In Love’s Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay 70 Eagle 

Inspector’s Puzzle, The, By Charles Matthew 84 Magnet 

In Sight of St. Paul’s. By Sutton Vane 129 Eagle 

In the Golden Days. By Edna Lyall 71 Arrow 

In the Reign of Terror. By G. A. Henty 35 Medal 

Iron Pirate, The. By Max Pemberton 48 Arrow 

Ishmael; or, in the Depths. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. 

Southworth 86 Arrow 

J 

Jack. By Alphonse Daudet 59 Arrow 

Jack and Three Jills. By F. C. Philips ^ 14 Arrow 

Jack Archer. By G. A. Henty 19 Medal 

Jess: A Tale of the Transvaal. By H. Rider Haggard — 83 Arrow 

John Needham’s Double. By Joseph Hatton 41 Magnet 

Jud and Joe, Printers and Publishers. By Gilbert Patten.. 33 Medal 

k: 

Kidnapped, By Robert Louis Stevenson 15 Arrow 

King or Knave. By R, E. Francillon 7 Arrow 

King’s Stratagem and Other Stories, The. By Stanley J. 


Kit Carey’s Protege. By Lieutenant Lionel Lounsberry — 8 Medal 
Klondike Claim, A. By Nicholas Carter 1 Magnet 

Iv 

Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss M. E, Braddon 94 Arrow- 

Lady Evelyn. By May Agnes Fleming 141 Eagle 

La Tosca. By Victorien Sardou 61 Eagle 

Lawyer Bell from Boston. By Robert Lee Tyler 63 Eagle 

Lena Rivers. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes 56 Arrow 

6 


Leslie’s Loyalty. By Charles Garvice 17 Eagle 

Lieutenant Carey’s Luck. By Lieutenant Lionel Louns- 

berry 4 Medal 

Light That Failed, The. By Rudy aid Kipling 1 Arrow 

Lilian, My Lilian. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 106 Eagle 

Little Coquette Bonnie. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 43 Eagle 

Little Cuban Rebel, The. By Edna Winfield 68 Eagle 

Little Lady Charles. By Efhe Adelaide Rowlands 139 Eagle 

Little Lightning, the Shadow Detective. By Police Cap- 
tain James 70 Magnet 

Little Minister, The. By J. M. Barrie 96 Eagle 

Little Sunshine. By Francis S. Smith 10 Eagle 

Little Southern Beauty, A. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.. 25 Eagle 

Little Widow, The. By Julia Edwards 13 Eagle 

Living Lie, A. By Paul Bourget 8 Arrow 

Locksmith of Lyons, The. By Prof. Wm. Henry Peck 83 Eagle 

Lorrie; or. Hollow Gold. By Charles Garvice 85 Eagle 

Los Huecos Mystery, The. By Eugene T. Sawyer 51 Magnet 

IVI 

Macaria. By Augusta J. Evans 80 Arrow 

Maddoxes, 'The. By Jean Middlemass 38 Arrow 

Major Matterson of Kentucky. By the author of Dr. Jack. .58 Eagle 

Maltese Cross, The. By Eugene T. Sawyer 61 Magnet 

Man from India, The. By Nicholas Carter 50 Magnet 

Man of Mark, A. By Anthony Hope 98 Arrow 

Man Who Vanished, The. By Nicholas Carter 114 Magnet 

Man With a Thumb, The. By Barclay North 113 Magnet 

Marjorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay 79 Eagle 

Marquis, The. By Charles Garvice 73 Eagle 

Marriage at Sea, A. By W. Clark Russell 11 Arrow 

Masked Detective, The. By Judson R. Taylor 82 Magnet 

Master of Ballantrae. By Robert Louis Stevenson 5 Arrow 

Matapan Affair, The. By Fortune DuBoisgobey 38 Magnet 

Mavourneen. From the celebrated play 76 Eagle 

Max. By Mrs. Georgia Sheldon 133 Eagle 

Meadowbrook. By Mrs. Mary J. Holmes 79 Arrow 

Midnight Marriage, The. By A. M. Douglas 6 Eagle 

Midshipman Merrill. By Lieutenant Lionel Lounsberry 15 Medal 

Mildred Trevanion. By The Duchess 40 Arrow 

Millionaire Partner, A. By Nicholas Carter 59 Magnet 

Miss Caprice. By the author of Dr. Jack 28 Eagle 

Miss Milne and I. By the author of “A Yellow Aster” 44 Aitow 

Miss Pauline of New York. By the author of Dr. Jack 23 Eagle 

Monsieur Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack 40 Eagle 

Mountaineer Detective, The. By C. W. Cobb 40 Magnet 

Mr. Lake of Chicago. By Harry DuBois Milman 19 Eagle 

Mrs. Bob. By the author of Dr. Jack 33 Eagle 

Muertalma; or. The Poisoned Pin. By Marmaduke Dey... 58 Magnet 

My Lady’s Money. By Wilkie Collins 58 Arrow 

Mysterious Case, A. By K. F. Hill 32 Magnet 

Mysterious Mail Robbery, The. By Nicholas Carter 13 Magnet 

Mystery of a Handsom Cab, The. By Fergus Hume 47 Magnet 

Mystery of a Madstone, The. By K. F. Hill 67 Magnet 

IV 

Nabob of Singapore, The. By the author of Dr. Jack 38 Eagle 

Nerine’s Second Choice. By Adelaide Stirling 131 Eagle 

New Arabian Nights, The. By Robert Louis Stevenson. . .75 Arrow 

Nick Carter and the Green Goods Men 87 Magnet 

Nick Carter’s Clever Protege. By Nicholas Carter 108 Magnet 

Nobody’s Daughter. By Clara Augusta 127 Eagle 

None but the Brave. By Robert Lee Tyler 49 Eagle 

Northern Lights. By A. D. Hall 123 Eagle 

North Walk Mystery, The. By Will N. Harben 88 Magnet 

No. 13 Rue Marlot. By Rene de Pont Jest 96 Magnet 

Now or Never. By Oliver Optic 5 Medal 

6 


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Off with the Old I.ove. By Mrs. M. V. Victor 46 Eagle 

Old Detective's Pupil, The. By Nicholas Carter 10 Magnet 

Old Homestead, The. By Denman Thompson 53 Eagle 

Old Mortality. By Young Baxter 103 Magnet 

Old Specie, the Treasury Detective. By Marline Manly. .45 Magnet 

On the Firing Line. By Douglas Wells 7 Columbia 

On the Rack. By Barclay North 90 Magnet 

Partners, The. By Alphonse Daudet • ..67 Arrow 

Passenger from Scotland Yard, The. By H. F. Wood.. 107 Magnet 

Past Master of Crime, A. By Donald J. McKenzie 104 Magnet 

Peter Simple. By Captain Marryat 30 Medal 

Phantom Future, The. By Henry Seton Merriman 78 Arrow 

Phantom ’Rickshaw, The. By Rudyard Kipling 12 Arrow 

Philippines, The. By A. D. Hall 2 Historical 

Piano Box Mystery, The. By Nicholas Carter 17 Magnet 

Plain Tales from the Hills. By Rudyard Kipling 63 Arrow 

Playing a Bold Game. By Nicholas Carter 12 Magnet 

Poker King. The. By Marline Manly 80 Magnet 

Pope (Leo XHI.), A Life of the. By A. D. Hall 5 Historical 

Porto Rico. By A. D. Hall ;.. 3 Historical 

Post Office Detective, The. By George W. Goode 52 Magnet 

Prairie Detective, The. By Leander P. Ricardson 37 Magnet 

Prettiest of All. By Julia Edwards 124 Eagle 

Pretty Geraldine. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 34 Eagle 

Price He Paid, The. By E. Werner 51 Eagle 

Prince of the House of David, The. By Rev. Prof. J. H. 

Ingraham 43 Arrow 

Prisoner of Morro, A. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N., 4 Columbia 

Prisoners and Captives. By Henry Seton Merriman 85 Arrow 

Proud Dishonor, A. By Genie Holzmeyer 104 Eagle 

Puzzle of Five Pistols and Other Stories, The. By Nich- 
olas Carter 97 Magnet 

Q 

Queen Bess. By Mrs. Georgia Sheldon 1 Eagle 

Queen of Treachery, A. By T. W. Hanshew 93 Eagle 

R 

Red Camellia, The. By Fortune Du Boisgobey 64 Magnet 

Red Lottery Ticket, The. By Fortune DuBoisgobey 31 Magnet 

Revenue Detectives, The. By Police Captain James 42 Magnet 

Robert Hardy’s Seven Days. By Rev'. Chas. M. Sheldon.. 2 Alliance 

Rogue, The. By W. E. Norris 9 Arrow 

Romance of a Poor Young Man, The. By Octave Feuillet..46 Arrow 

Romance of Two Worlds, A. By Marie Corelli 18 Arrow 

Rosamond. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 57 Flagle 

Ruby’s Reward. By Mrs. Georgia Sheldon 2 Eagle 

Riiy Bias. By Victor Hugo 37 Arrow 

Sappho. By Alphonse Daudet 16 Arrow 

Saved by the Enemy. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N.. 8 Columbia 

Saved from the Sea. By Richard Duffy 118 Eagle 

Scent of the Roses, The. By the author of Half a Truth.. 128 Eagle 
Sealed Orders; or. The Triple Mystery. By Nicholas 

Carter 95 Magnet 

Secret Service Detail, A. By Douglas Wells 5 Columbia 

Self-Raised; or. From the Depths. By Mrs. Emma D. E. N. 

Southworth 87 Arrow 

Sehator’s Bride, The. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 20 Eagle 

Senator's Favorite, The. Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 5 Eagle 

Shadow'ed by a Detective. By Virginia Champlin 106 Magnet 

Shadow of a Crime, The. Hall Caine 84 Arrow 

7 


Shenandoah. By J. Perkins Tracy 87 Eagle 

Sherlock Holmes Detective Stories, The. A. Conan Doyle. 72 Magnet 

She s All the World to Me. By Hall Caine 2_AriOW 

She Doved Him. By Charles Garvice 117 Eagle 

Sign of the Crossed Knives, Ihe. By Nicholas Carter.. 7y Magnet 

Sign of the Four, "Ihe. By A. Conan Doyle 17 Arrow 

Silver Ship, The. By Leon Lewis 18 Medal 

Siren’s Love, A. By Kobert Lee Tyler 31 Eagle 

Society Detective, The. By Oscar Maitland 34 Magnet 

Soldier Monk, The. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N...17 Columbia 

Soldiers Three. By Rudyard Kipling 65 Arrow 

Soldier's Pledge, A. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N...12 Columbia 

Son of Mars, A. By the author of Dr. Jack 108 Eagle 

Spain and the Spaniards. By B. Essex Winthrop 8 Historical 

Span of Life, The. By Sutton Vane 103 Eagle 

Spider's ^Veb, The. By the author of Dr. Jack 71 Eagle 

Squire John. By the author of Dr. Jack...: ^.134 Eagle 

Steel Necklace, The. By Fortune DuBoisgobey 27 Magnet 

Stella Stirling. By Julia Edwards 62 Eagle 

Stolen Identity, A. By Nicholas Carter 9 Magnet 

Stolen Pay Train and Other Stories, The. By Nicholas 

Carter 101 Magnet 

Stolen Race Horse and Other Stories, The. By Nicholas 

Carter Ill Magnet 

Story of an African Farm, The. By Olive Schreiner 91 Arrow 

Stranglers of Paris; or. The Grip of Iron, The. (From the 

Celebrated Play) 28 Arrow 

Study in Scarlet, A. By A. Conan Doyle 3 Arrow 

Suspense. By Henry Seton Merriman 83 An-ow 

Sweet Violet. By Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller 91 Eagle 

Swordsman of Warsaw, The. By Judson R. Taylor 20 Columbia 

GT 

Tempest and Sunshine. By Mary J. Holmes 53 Arrow 

That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 44 Eagle 

That Girl of Johnsons’. By Jean Kate Ludlum 140 Eagle 

Thelma. By Marie Corelli 55 Arrow 

Theodora. By Victorien Sardou 29 Eagle 

Three Musketeers, The. By Alexander Dumas 77 Arrow 

Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 55 Eagle 

Through the Fray. By G. A. Henty 25 Medal 

Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 77 Eagle 

Titled Counterfeiter, A. By Nicholas Carter 3 Magnet 

Toilers of the Sea, The. By Victor Hugo 30 Arrow 

Tom and Jerry, The Double Detectives. By Judson R. 

Taylor 93 Magnet 

Tracked Across the Atlantic. By Nicholas Carter 4 Magnet 

Tragedy in the Rue de la Paix, The. By Adolphe Belot 32 Arrow 

Treasure Island. By Robert Louis Stevenson 24 Arrow 

True to the Old Flag. By G. A. Henty 29 Medal 

I’ry Aeain. By Oliyer Ontic 9 Medal 

Twenty Years After. By Alexander Dumas 99 Arrow 

Twin Detectives. The. By K. F. Hill 74 Magnet 

Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay 95 Eagle 

Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 7 Eagle 

Two Plus Two. By Nicholas Carter 73 Magnet 

XJ 

Uncle Sam’s Ships. A History of our Navy. By A. D. 

Hall 6 Historical 

Under Fire. By T. P. James 75 Eagle 

ITnder His Thumb. By Donald J. McKenzie 28 Magnet 

Under the Deodars and Story of the Gadsbys. By Rudyard 

Kipling 70 Arrow 

Unseen Bridegroom, The. By May Agnes Fleming 136 Eagle 

Up the Ladder. By Lieutenant Murray 13 Medal 

8 


V 

Van Alstine Case, TTie. By Nicholas Carter 77 Magmet 

Van, the Government Detective. By Judson R. Taylor 92 Magnet 

Vendetta. By Marie Corelli 36 Arrow 

Verdant Green, Mr., The Adventures of. By Cuthbert 

Bede, B. A 34 Medal 

Vestibule Bimited Mystery, The. By Marline Manly 57 Magnet 

Victoria, Queen and Kmpress. By A. D. Hail 9 Historical 

Violet Bisle. By Bertha M. Clay 14 Eagle 

Virgie’s Inheritance. ' By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon ...88 Eagle 

Virginia Heiress, The. By May Agnes Fleming 9 Eagle 

Vivier, of Vivier, Bongmans Co., Bankers. By Barclay 

North 94 Magnet 

'W 

Wall Street Haul, A. By Nicholas Carter 6 Magnet 

Wanted by Two Clients. By Nicholas Carter 81 Magnet 

War Reporter, The. By Warren Edwards 97 Eagle 

Wasted Bove, A. By Charles Garvice 24 Eagle 

Wedded for an Hour. By Emma Garrison Jones 81 Eagle 

Wedded Widow, A. By T. W. Hanshew 137 Eagle 

Wheeling for Fortune. By James Otis 20 Medal 

When Bondon Sleeps. From the Celebrated Play 

By Chas. Darrell 105 Eagle 

White Company, The. By A. Conan Doyle 81 Arrow 

White King of Africa, The. By William Murray Graydon..l6 Medal 

White Squadron, The. By T. C, Harbaugh 120 Eagle 

Whose Was the Crime? By Gertrude Warden 132 Eagle 

Whose Wife Is She? By Annie Bisle 110 Eagle 

Widowed Bride, A. By Bucy Randall Comfort 86 Eagle 

Widow Berouge, The. By Emile Gaboriau 15 Magnet 

Wilful Winnie. By Harriet Sherburne 72 Eagle 

Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 66 Eagle 

Wolves of the Navy. By Ensign Clarke Fitch, U. S. N..13 Columbia 

Woman Against Woman. By Effie Adelaide Rowlands 52 Eagle 

Woman’s Hand, A. By Nicholas Carter 16 Magnet 

Won at West Point. By Bieutenant Bionel Bounsburry. .21 Medal 

AVon by the Sword. By J. Perkins Tracy 65 Eagle 

Won by Waiting. By Edna Bvall 45 Arrow 

Workingman Detective, The. By Donald J. McKenzie. , .110 Magnet 

Wormwood. By Marie Corelli 47 Arrow 

Worth V/inning. By Mrs. Emily Bovett Cameron 52 Arrow 

Wreck of the South Pole, The. By Charles Curtz Hahn.. 22 Columbia 

Y 

Tale Man, A. By Robert Bee Tyler 45 Eagle 

Yankee Champion, The. By Sylvanus Cobb, Jr 78 Eagle 

Yankee Bieutenant, The. By Douglass Wells ! 1 Columbia 

Young Colonists, The. A Story of Bife and' War in Africa. 

By G. A. Henty 14 Medal 

Young Mistley. By Henry Seton Merriman 95 Arrow 


9 


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NO. 14] 




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